


The Adventure of the Inexperienced Lovers

by thiliel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Lestrade, Case Fic, Friendship, Gay Sherlock, Inexperienced John, Inexperienced Sherlock, John is way out of his comfort zone, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Rimming, Sherlock's Feet, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 33,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiliel/pseuds/thiliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't want to you to point me anywhere, Greg, I want you to show us how to do it.”</p><p>Greg had a sudden vivid image of his fingers in Sherlock, writhing on the sheets, with John watching while he stroked his cock, ready to be buried balls-deep. Jesus. He needed to get his filthy mind under control.</p><p>“John mentioned you had lots of experience.”</p><p>John shrugged apologetically and shot Greg a 'Sorry, we tell each other everything and he probably knew anyway' look.</p><p>“Maybe I do. Never mind that.” Greg tried to be reasonable. “Maybe at this point in your relationship it's not such a good idea to get a third wheel attached. You can just ... experiment with each other. Isn't that enough?”</p><p>“Yes and no. I don't want to experiment on John.”</p><p>“That's a new one,” John half-snorted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_He raced across the rooftop after the killer and he was closing in fast. He could almost touch him, but then the murderer took a giant leap across a gap between two houses. Losing his footing, he skidded to a stop and cursed. He could not make that jump. He would lose him. Taking out his Browning, he took aim and -_

"Boring!“ Sherlock yelled and threw another folder into the flames.  


John flinched and put down the thriller he had tried to get into for the last half hour. Sherlock ripping old files to shreds and throwing them into the fire melodramatically while commenting on their banality also hadn't helped. At present, he felt the urge to commit the paperback to the flames as well.  


"You remember this one, John, with the moronic husband who...“ His phone vibrated. John looked at Sherlock expectingly.  


"Yes! Text from Lestrade about a murder-suicide on the South Bank.“ Sherlock had been bored out of his mind all evening and could hardly restrain himself from jumping up and down while he rushed to put on his coat.  


"John, come on," he yelled while pounding down the stairs. Sighing, John shrugged into his jacket and followed Sherlock. The detective already stood at the kerb flagging down a cab.  


"Hopton Street," Sherlock announced as he sorted his long limbs into the back seat and waited for John to get in as well. In the darkness, he watched the lights reflect on Sherlock's angular features while they were speeding through the city, towards their next case. 

Their cab stopped. They could already glimpse the yellow tape. Sherlock hopped out of the cab and strode off toward it. John sighed and reached for his wallet. He leaned forward and asked the cabbie "How much do we you?"  


"'Bout 17 quid" he said. 

John gave him a twenty, thanked him, and made after Sherlock. At the barrier, he was held up by an officer he didn't recognize.  


"Sorry, you can't come in here now," the young woman said, apologetic but determined.  


"I'm John Watson. I work with Sherlock Holmes," he told her.  


"It's okay, Mel, just let him through," he heard Greg holler. "Good to see you, John."  


"Hello," John smiled. He cordially shook hands with Greg, who was in a suit and looked more exhausted and worn out than usual. He quickly pulled Greg close to him in a half hug and whispered in his ear: “Thank you. You saved our sanity, I owe you one.”  


“No problem,” Greg whispered back. 

John smelled a hint of cigarettes. His breath ghosted across John's ear and made him shiver a bit. They broke apart and John nodded down the street where the forensic team milled about.  


"So, what's this, then?"  


Greg led him to another cordoned off area. Sherlock was already in it, crouching over two bodies. John saw a man and a woman on their backs on the asphalt, both of them very dead. Sherlock was in his element, John could tell from the way he carried himself.  


John got closer and did his share of observing. The woman was middle aged and brown-skinned. She was sprawled on her back in an evening dress of startling azure blue. The elegant wrinkles were artfully arranged to obscure her pudgy waist. She had bled extensively from a chest wound, not quite in the heart. She had probably died fairly quickly. John couldn't help but look at her face which was frozen in an expression of surprise. Her eyes were still wide open.  


The man was older. His white hair set off the contrasting gash of a bullet wound on his right temple. He had fallen down face first and his head lay turned to the right. His arms were sprawled out in front of him. There was a Glock next to his right hand, but he was not holding it. The unlucky fellow was wearing a tuxedo, expensive-looking. The couple probably had a night out, and they weren't poor, either. That was about as far as John got.

~ Sherlock ~

Sherlock checked the man's coat pockets and his jacket. Right tux pocket: Two ticket stubs (Tate, dated today). Coat pocket: cigarettes in expensive metal case (Marlboro), lighter, a clip-purse complete with credit card, debit card, driver's license and about 80 pounds of cash. Watch (Rolex) on his right wrist. Ring, too (still intact). Nicotine stains on the left thumb, fore and middle finger.  


The woman: elegant hair-do (Elnette hair spray, professionally done); pearl necklace with matching earrings (real pearls, slight irregularities), perfume (Dior), bespoke dress (silk), coat (fur). Ring (matched the man's, married), nails polished, no chipping). Shot at close distance. He patted her down and looked inside her coat pockets. Nothing. Sherlock rose and searched the ground around the pair, glance darting here and there. 

“Have you found anything? Did she carry a purse?” he inquired.  


“Yes,” Lestrade answered. He procured the article which was already in an evidence bag. ID (Marita Carson), club membership, leaflet from the Tate, some charity thing, dated next month. No credit cards, no money.  


“What do you think?” Lestrade asked him.  


"The man did not shoot himself. He's left handed.” He glanced at John and Lestrade. “This is a double murder.” Suppressing a smile, he turned towards them. “I've seen everything I need to see. Have the files sent over.”  


“Wait, that's all?” Lestrade asked.  


“Yep.”  


“Really?”  


Sherlock frowned. Lestrade was starting to annoy him.  


“Someone tried to make it look like he shot himself in the head. That's all I can tell you right now. I need more data.” Sherlock turned toward John. “John, get a – “  


But Lestrade protested: “Seriously? That's it? Usually you're a bit more helpful than that. Nothing to observe?”  


“You want more observing? Fine.”  


Sherlock gave him a careful once-over. Then he stepped into his personal space and sniffed. 

“You've been staying at a hotel for the past four to five nights. You're not using your regular aftershave, but a cheap generic foam that is issued complimentarily at lower-end hotel chains. You slept at the office for some time before that. Your gait is different so as not to disturb the muscles in your lower back.“  


"Sherlock," John warned. They had gathered a small crowd.  


“The mattress at the hotel is also not helping alleviate the symptoms. You usually clip your nails on the weekend; their current length indicates a deviation from your routine. Your shirt has been to the dry cleaners. You usually iron them yourself, at home – yes, you, not your soon to be ex-wife. Your skin also shows clear signs of – " 

~ John ~ 

"That's enough," John snapped. "Can't you tell when it's no use beating a dead horse?"  


Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and John speculated that he wasn't familiar with the idiom and presumably thought up an experimental setting in which equine tissue would play a major role. 

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, just shut up."  


Greg bit his lip. 

“Are you finished?” he asked, a slight quiver in his voice, which he tried to suppress with defiance.  


“No, but John told me to stop.”  


“Fine. Thanks for nothing.”  


Greg turned around on his heel and stalked off down the street. 

John shot Sherlock an exasperated look. 

“You prat, he just did us a favor. Try to be a bit more sensitive.”  


“How did he do us a favor?”  


“I texted him earlier, asking if he had something on for us. You were building up to a massive sulk all evening. So you should be thanking him for letting you in on this.”  


“It's not even a three,” Sherlock muttered.  


“What? Come on, it was nice thing to do. He's having a hard enough time as it is.”  


“He can stay with us,” Sherlock finally said, instead of an apology (Lord knew those were rare). “He hates spending money but he's too proud to ask for help.”  


John mulled this over a bit. Yes, that seemed like something Greg would do. 

“I'm going to go talk to him,” he thumbed in the direction the DI had walked off to. “You stay here and try not to make anyone cry, okay?” 

John caught up with Greg, who was leaning against a doorway, having a smoke. 

“Sorry about Sherlock,” he said.  


“Yeah, sure,” Greg answered, taking a deep drag. His face seemed impassive, but worn.  


“No, really. Sorry. He was out of line.”  


“It's not your fault. It's just the way he is.“ Greg replied with a sigh. “Just caught me at a bad moment, that's all.”  


“I'm also sorry about how things went between Jodie and you.”  


“It's okay. Thanks, John. I just couldn't stay there anymore. She'd never leave on her own account, I had to. And Sherlock is right, the hotel is shitty. I'm looking for something more permanent, eventually. Things... are pretty final."  


"I'm so sorry, Greg. You want to grab a pint and tell me what happened?"  


Greg found he fancied a cool beer and an open ear very much. 

When Greg and John walked back to the crime scene to join the others, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. “The git left without me,” John muttered. He should be used to Sherlock taking off like that by now, but he still felt left behind. They drove over to NSY where Greg had to file a short report before his shift ended. While John waited for Greg he texted Sherlock. 

__

_Where did you run off to?_

__

_Getting some things. SH_

__

_Going to grab a pint with Greg. Feel free to join us._

__

_Busy. Bring him home with you. He can't afford the hotel. He'll need the money for a good lawyer. SH_

__

_How do you know that?_

Two smart leather shoes came into John's view and he looked up.  


“Ready?” Greg asked. “I could kill for a burger.”  


They left NSY and finally, at around half past twelve, they were ensconced in a booth at the pub. They placed in their order before the kitchen closed and devoured two delightfully unhealthy burgers with gusto. After that, pints just kept appearing in front of them. And John just listened and let Greg rant.  


“She cheated on me. With her fucking yoga instructor. For four months. And the best thing is, she isn't really sorry about it. She blames me, because apparently I neglected her.” 

Greg had done a good job of keeping his anger in check. He had behaved so professionally at work that John hadn't even noticed that he was this upset. 

“I don't even know her anymore. I...” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I can't do this anymore. This is not the first time this has happened. I overlooked it then. But I don't even feel at home there anymore, it's like coming home to a stranger every night. And I took nights off work, to do something together, but she was busy, too, she said. I imagine screwing that guy's brains out is a tough schedule to keep...” Greg took a great gulp of beer. “I hate leaving home. I just want my own bed, not that unbearable hotel mattress. My back is killing me. I hate this. I hate being like this.”  


John felt bad for Greg. "You know, you could always stay with us," he offered.  


"Nah, I wouldn't want to impose. Appreciate it, though. I'm fine."  


The dark circles under his eyes were telling another story, though.  


"You're not fine. I don't need Sherlock's observational skills to see that."  


"Well, I'll be fine, then." Greg scowled and leaned back in the booth.  


"In fact, Sherlock suggested it. You, staying with us."  


"That so?"  


"Yes, in his way, of course. He said you're thrifty and you hate pouring money down the drain, and since you'll have to get a lawy – I mean, you would want to be more careful, and pffff..." John made a rude sound with his lips. He took another sip of beer. Greg shook his head and huffed.  


"The bottom line is, though, we'd both like you to stay with us. And Sherlock may be unable to say it in a non-Sherlock, non-offensive way, but I guess he wants to help out. And I..." 

John looked down into his empty beer glass and then directly at Greg. 

"I want you to because you're my friend. And friends give friends a place to crash when they get screwed over by their bitch of a wife who can't even tell what a great bloke she threw away." 

John had worked himself into a bit of a rage there and was surprised by his invective and the accidental compliment he had given Greg. Deciding to ignore that it had happened, he signaled the barkeeper for two more pints. 

"Besides, you'll be utterly pissed when we're done here. And I'm a doctor with a secret hangover remedy, which is at home."  


Greg laughed involuntarily and then sighed. He drained his glass and accepted the new one. 

"All right, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to my skillful beta readers, ButterscotchCandybatch and Spinner Dolphin.


	2. Chapter 2

~ Greg ~ 

They stopped at Greg's hotel to check him out and get the overnight bag, which was all he had been able to pack after the fight. They decided to walk to Baker Street. John looked a bit wobbly on his legs, but Greg knew he could hold his liquor. The fresh air was clearing both their heads a bit.  


“Do you still love her?” John asked, as an afterthought to the conversation.  


Greg thought about it. 

“I don't know.” He smoked another cigarette while walking silently beside John. 

“Hold on.” John fumbled in his pocket for the keys. 

“Jesus, slippery fuckers.” 

He opened the door and placed his hand on Greg's back, who was suddenly shy about entering. 

“In you go. 221B at your service.”  


John clicked on the light in the familiar hallway. Greg smelled musty wallpaper, wood, strong cleaners and whatever Mrs. Hudson had cooked up – was that shepherd's pie? It felt right being here, at Baker Street. He felt calm for the first time in weeks. John went ahead of him at the stairwell. Greg followed and couldn't help but notice his firm buttocks in navy trousers. They were right in front of him and looked delicious. Greg felt the sudden urge to grab and squeeze. Hell, how much did he have to drink? Thinking about molesting poor John was just not on. Even though he did have a fantastic arse. Too bad he played for the other team.  


Greg forced his gaze unto the stairs before him, which was a good idea because they turned out to be a bit of a challenge. At the entrance to John and Sherlock's flat, John got out of his shoes and Greg tried to emulate him. He had a bit of trouble with the laces on his leather shoes. Suddenly, he felt silly, standing there is his suit, fumbling around with his knots like a five-year-old and giggling uncontrollably while he lost his balance. John laughed back at him and held out an arm to steady Greg. 

Light poured out of the living room. John entered before him.  


“Sher... Oh dear God, what is this?” he heard John say. 

John had nearly fallen into a bunch of boxes standing right behind the door. Greg squeezed into the living room behind him. 

Sherlock was curled up on his chair near the fireplace, reduced to embers now. He looked up at them nonchalantly, lowering the book he'd been reading.  


“Sherlock, what is this?” John repeated.  


Sherlock eyed the boxes and then the two men like they were utterly stupid.  


“Lestrade's things. Obviously.”  


“Wha – ” 

Greg was slow on uptake, understandably. He was a bit sloshed. He inspected the boxes more closely. The three in front of him were labeled:

GREGORY TROUSERS  
GREGORY SHOES  
GREGORY SHIRTS

She only called him Gregory when she was cross with him. 

_“Gregory, please pick up your clothes.”_

_“Gregory, you forgot to reserve a table.”_

_“Gregory, your mother called...”_  


“How did you get them, Sherlock?” John wanted to know.  


“I broke into your apartment.”  


“You broke into my apartment?!” Greg yelped.  


“Don't worry, your wife wasn't home.She put most of your clothes in boxes. Very convenient. Solid indexing, too."  


A hot ball of hatred formed in Greg's belly at the efficiency with which Jodie was apparently shoving him out of her life. She had even used the label maker. John grasped his shoulder in sympathy, but he had the decency not to say anything while Greg's vision clouded a bit around the edges and he tried to compose himself. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly.  


“I need the bathroom,” Greg muttered.  


“Sure. It's right over there,” John pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen. 

As he shuffled off to the loo, he could hear John quietly speaking to Sherlock. He made out the words and “flat” and “stupid” and Sherlock's rumbling baritone replied something with “scratches” in an indignant tone. But right now, this was just too much to process. And Greg had had a lot of beer. 

~ Sherlock ~

Sherlock sprawled elegantly in his armchair, wearing a dark suit and a crisp white shirt which emphasized his slim physique. One arm was slung around his knee which he had pulled up to his chin. The old files he had disturbed in his earlier fit of boredom were still sprawled around him. It had certainly been an informative excursion, having seen Lestrade and his soon-to-be-ex-wife's shared habitat. The state of the flat had spoken to him elaborately about the state of their relationship, all the little clues pointed the way to the door for Lestrade (whose lock incidentally had been alluring to pick; uncommon model, six pins, satisfying click, 1:47).  


Sherlock uncurled and stretched lazily. He let the book drop to the floor carelessly. 'Idioms of the English Language'; It was rubbish, but he had been wondering about the horse thing. 

John stopped staring at the mass of boxes like it would dematerialize them and turned to Sherlock. Red spots bloomed across his cheeks, slightly pink ears, eyes sparkling with a strange mixture of excitement, adoration and worry.  


“You know, breaking into a DI's flat is a phenomenally stupid thing to do,” he chided halfheartedly.  


“No one saw me. And I never leave scratches.”  


“No one saw you carrying a dozen boxes out of a building? Come on.”  


“Could have happened. But maybe I'm a friend and Lestrade could have given me a key and permission.”  


“Of course,“ John said, mocking his tone. “It was a bit stupid, nonetheless.” 

Sherlock pretended to inspect a speck on his trousers and shrugged. 

“It was also a very nice thing to do.” 

John sauntered over to him.  


“Was it.”  


John sat on the arm rest and stroked Sherlock's hair, then his cheek. 

“Yes, it was. Here's your reward.” 

John leaned into Sherlock's space and kissed him softly on the lips. Sherlock swayed into his caress.  


“You do care, you know,” John whispered into his ear like a secret, still stroking his hair and neck.  


Sherlock made noncommittal noise and gave John a peck on the lips. He darted his tongue across them. 

John's breathing quickened.  


“You are heavily inebriated,” Sherlock remarked. He licked his lips which tasted of John and a slight tang of hops and peat. 

“You had Guiness and whiskey. Laphroaig.”  


“Yes, I had. It was lovely and I regret nothing,” John smiled. 

“I think he needed that.” he pointed his chin in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Can you imagine how he feels right now?”  


“No,” Sherlock said, honestly meaning it. Emotions were still a minefield for him to navigate.  


“Well, dreadful, I imagine.” 

After a pause, John added: “Just imagine I threw you out of our shared flat and out of my life for some other dickhead.”  


Sherlock contemplated that for a moment and came to the obvious conclusion: 

“They'd never find his body.” 

His arm tightened around John's waist possessively.  


“That's reassuring. Sort of,” John grinned, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. 

Sherlock buried his nose in John's jumper and breathed him in. John. His doctor disentangled himself after a bit and got up, still slightly unsteady. 

“Whew, you're right, I'm pissed. D'you want something? I need water and aspirin or I'll be dead come morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little easter egg hidden in this chapter. Kudos to you if you can spot it!


	3. Chapter 3

~ Greg~

Greg entered the bathroom. It was rather minimalist: a bath tub with a blue shower curtain, some towels draped haphazardly about, toilet seat up. This was clearly an all-boy bathroom. He unzipped and had a good long piss. After, he washed his hands and his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. John was right, he looked miserable. 

How had his life turned around so completely? Greg had thought he was on a good track. He had had everything in order. He was healthy, he had an engaging job which paid well and kept him on his toes. A long-term relationship had morphed into something more. Jodie and Greg had been friends first, then lovers. They had given each other comfort and a proper home to go home to instead of a lonely apartment and TV dinners – which Greg had thought he was in for for the rest of his life. 

Most couples he knew made all sorts of compromises in order to keep each other company. Greg never felt like he had to try hard with Jodie. Everything just clicked into place. A blonde, sexy woman with a very cynical sense of humour which a lot of other blonde, sexy women would cringe at in disgust. It had helped him through a lot of the bad cases. She laughed in the face the of the horrors he had witnessed with defiance. Jodie took his problems seriously, but made inappropriate cracks at them and thus kept them at bay, like in the Harry Potter movies when the students had to do this charm that would morph their worst fear into something ridiculous. Jodie loved those movies and made Greg watch them all. And he had grown to like them, too, her enthusiasm was contagious. It was kind of what she did. She had even read the books, and she never hid them in the bedroom or some wayward bookshelf, they were right out in the living room were every visitor could see. Jodie would never hide something she liked. She wasn't ashamed of reading children's books and genuinely didn't care what people thought about her. 

In fact, she was unapologetic about many things; like screwing around. Jodie had always been very confident about her sexuality. It used to be quite a turn-on for Greg. If she had just said outright “Greg, this isn't enough for me, I need more, I want adventure, I want something you cannot give me” he would have made it work. Instead she had not told him and gone behind his back. She hadn't even given him a chance. And this is what hurt Greg most of all: the lack of trust. She probably didn't even feel the need to apologize because she did not feel sorry. At all. In her world, it probably seemed OK to just take what she wanted without considering other people's feelings. And she hadn't thought about him one bit. It fucking hurt. 

The first two nights in his office, he had cried. After that, Greg had tried to numb himself with work. But now, seeing the boxes, spelling “Gregory”... What was she thinking? She hadn't even given him a chance to communicate. He hadn't been angry with her all week, but now he was livid. Talking to John had loosened a knot. How could she just pack him up into boxes already? She seemed to have no qualms about him leaving at all. Maybe she was even glad to be rid of him. Or worse: She didn't care at all. She had distanced herself so far that telling “Gregory” to get his stuff out of the flat would probably be uttered in the same tone in which she told him to drop his socks into the hamper instead of the floor, treating it like a daily occurrence. Fuck that. This wasn't worth sharing anymore. 

At least he still had friends. Well, some at least. The fact was, since he met Jodie, he hadn't found the time to meet many of his old friends. But colleagues did count, right? Greg's casual acquaintances from university had slowly been eliminated by a demanding job that didn't care for regular hours. Most of his friends were on the force with him and they met up after work because it was convenient. John had told him he considered him his friend, which he hadn't said out loud ever before. Greg was glad. He regarded John very highly. He was easy to like, always friendly and forgiving, but also took no shit from anyone, especially not from Sherlock, which commanded some respect. He exuded a quiet confidence that everything was under control, even when it clearly wasn't; but when John was around, there was hope. And he seemed to like Greg in return. 

Did Sherlock feel the same way about him? He never let on much. He couldn't even remember his first name, for crying out loud, though Greg was almost sure he did that just to annoy him. In his way, he was important to Sherlock, though as an actual person or only as a lifeline that dragged him out of endless seas of ennui and unto the exotic islands of interesting cases, he didn't know. Maybe he was just a means to an end to the detective. But he had known Sherlock for a long time now, longer than John, and he had seen the occasional crack in his facade. When he had still been using regularly, there had been times ... But Greg pushed that thought out of his mind quickly. Now was not the moment. He sighed and unlocked the bathroom door to return to his... friends. 

When he emerged into the kitchen John greeted him with a glass of water and two aspirin.  


“Better get those in now,” he advised.  


“Thank you,” Greg said, truly grateful he was going to nip a massive hangover in the bud. He swallowed the pills and drank the water down. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The chair was empty.  


“Did you need anything else?” John asked him.  


“I'm knackered,” Greg confessed. The alcohol made his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow, and he had been on his feet all day. He could probably fall asleep where he stood.  


“Let's get you settled then.” 

John walked towards the stairs while Greg grabbed his bag and followed him up to his room. It was smaller, but it had a neat touch to it that the rest of the flat was clearly lacking. There was a writing desk with a lamp, which John flicked on. The bed was freshly made and smelled of clean cotton. Greg eyed it longingly.  


"You can sleep in my bed, I'll bunk with Sherlock."  


"Don't be daft, John, the couch is fine. I don't want to –"  


"– be kept up by him conducting experiments in the kitchen in the dead of night? Mauling his violin when he gets stuck? Trust me, it's fine. Besides, he actually tends to sleep a little when we..." John abruptly ended the sentence, blushed and busied himself fiddling with a book on his desk.  


Greg heard the penny drop quite loudly in his own head. He had been off his game. Some Detective Inspector he was. He had just won about 70 quid at NSY.  


"Since when has that been a thing, then?" he asked jovially. He gestured to John and vaguely downstairs. "Not that no one was speculating about it, but, you know..."  


John still didn't turn around to face Greg. He felt like an idiot for asking, since John was so clearly uncomfortable with the subject.  


"About a month, now. Still feels a bit fresh, but at the same time, it doesn't, at all. I know it sounds weird, but we just ... fit." 

John exhaled. 

"Sorry, that's probably too much information. I haven't told anyone – so far. I'm a bit embarrassed, actually, me telling everyone and their mum I'm not gay, and well, I wasn't, really, before, and now it would look like I've been denying him all the time and I feel awful about that and I just... needed to tell someone, I guess, to start off with, so -"  


"John," Greg interrupted his rambling, touching his shoulder. 

"It's okay. I understand." 

John visibly relaxed a bit.  


"You won't tell everyone, will you? God, you probably have a pool going at the Yard, don't you."  


Greg bit his cheek from the inside. 

"No, don't be ridiculous,” he protested. “It's not my thing to tell. You can do that, or not, but in your own time."  


John pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a strangled laugh. Finally, he turned around to Greg. "Blimey, and here we are talking about your problems all night and now I made it all about me."  


"I'm glad you told me. It's about time you got your heads out of your arses, anyway. I'm happy for you both."  


"Thanks." 

After a short silence, John inquired: "Was it that obvious?"  


Greg grinned at John. "If you know him a little bit, yes. I've never seen him look at anyone like that. Like he looks at you sometimes." 

They fell silent for while, reminiscing. Greg squeezed John's shoulder encouragingly. 

"You're good for him. I know that. I just hope he's good for you, too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect this many people answering my call for help. Thank you for your support!  
> Many thanks to Elianara and feisty_one for beta reading this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg woke up the next morning at half past ten, feeling disoriented. It took him a moment to remember that he was at Baker Street and he had slept in John's bed last night. He had a headache and his back was still sore, but if it weren't for the aspirin John had given him he'd be feeling much worse.  


Coming downstairs, he was greeted by his boxes and immediately felt angry again. John and Sherlock were up already. John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. The shower was running, so Sherlock must be in it.  


“Morning,” Greg greeted John.  


“Hey, sleep all right?” John said.  


“Yeah, thanks. I think I passed out there after you left.”  


“You look much better now. Want some tea?”  


“Sure.”  


John poured him a cup.  


“I don't know how you take your tea?”  


“Oh, just milk.”  


John made a face. “Yeah, I thought I might have to go in there again.” He quickly opened the fridge without looking, dug out the carton purely by touch and prepared Greg's tea and popped in some toast. They sat down and had a late breakfast. 

Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open and Sherlock emerged, dressed in his blue silk robe. His head was wrapped in a white towel and he looked ridiculous.  


Greg stifled a smile. 

“Hello,” he said.  


“Good morning, Lestrade,” Sherlock answered haughtily and proceeded to his room, closing the door. After a minute, they heard the sound of a hair dryer.  


“You know, if he doesn't do that, his hair looks like he … never mind, it looks very silly.” John whispered conspiratorially. 

“If you want to have a shower, go ahead. I'll bring you some clean towels.” 

After Greg spent as long under the hot water as the boiler would permit him, he felt much better. He got dressed upstairs. John knocked on the door and entered.  


“Are you decent? If you want, I'll help you unpack a little. You can use parts of my wardrobe. I don't have that many things to put in there, anyway."  


They carried the boxes from downstairs until they crowded John's room. Sherlock didn't offer to help but paced up and down in the living room.  


“Did you bring the case files, Lestrade?” he yelled after him while he was carrying a particularly heavy one.  


“No!” Greg shouted back. When he was downstairs again to pick up the next one, he elaborated: “I just wrote a quick report last night. They'll have something proper on Monday. I'll let you have a look,” he offered.  


“You are so slow,” Sherlock commented. “How do you get anything done there?”  


“It's my day off,” Greg said defensively. “And you know, some people have weekends.” Sherlock made a disgruntled sound at the notion of weekends.  


“By the way, Sherlock, there's something I...”  


“What is it,” Sherlock interrupted and flung himself on the sofa.  


“You keep calling me by my last name. But since I'm staying with you for a while, it feels weird. So do mind not doing that?”  


“Of course, Gregory. Oh, you hate that,” he corrected himself immediately after gauging Greg's reaction. 

“Yes, fine. Greg.” 

Sherlock stretched on the sofa and reached for John's laptop.  


“Thank you.” 

At least he's acknowledging he knows my name, Greg thought to himself. 

"What on earth, Greg!" John came down the stairs and held up a multi-colored button-down that would have felt right at home in the 70s. 

"Are you James May or something?" John giggled endearingly.  


"Oi, put that down." Greg tried to snatch the offending garment from John.  


“Who is that?” Sherlock asked.  


“That bloke from Top Gear,” John answered.  


Sherlock stared at him blankly.  


“You know, that show I like to watch sometimes? With the cars?” John tried. 

Greg couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's utterly blank expression. God forbid his formidable mind be polluted with pop culture.  


“Never mind,” John piped. “Are you coming, Greg? I made you some room.”  


“Sure.” Greg picked up the last box and carried it upstairs. 

Most of Greg's stuff actually fit in John's wardrobe. He prioritized and they stacked the boxes they didn't unpack next to it.  


“I never knew I had so many clothes,” Greg sighed. “I haven't seen half of these in years.”  


“You could donate some,” John suggested. 

He sneezed.  


“Bless you,” Greg told him.  


“Thanks,” John muffled into his handkerchief. “It's really dusty here. I should clean.” 

When Greg thought about John cleaning his room, in which he was staying now, he felt guilty.  


“John, look,” he said. “Thanks for having me, but I'm not staying for long. Please don't trouble yourself.”  


“It's no bother,” John protested. “You can stay as long as you need to. I'm hardly up here anymore anyway.”  


Greg sat down on the floor, exhausted from the unpacking already. 

“I don't want to get in your way,” Greg demurred.  


“You won't. We'll probably be so busy we'll hardly see each other. I'm on call at the surgery next week. When are you going back to work?” John asked.  


“Monday,” Greg said. “I got a whole weekend off. That happens once in a blue moon. The thing is, I don't know what to do with all that time anymore.”  


“Well, you're here. We can think of something to do, right?” John said cheerfully.  


“Yeah, let's. Though drinking is out. I'm too old for this shit.”  


“Hey, that's my line,” John chuckled.  


“I'm older than you, so I get to use it.”  


“So what's a fun thing you haven't done in while?”  


“Hmm,” Greg thought about that a bit longer than he should have to. He couldn't go out and say 'sex' because that would be inappropriate. 

“I... used to do a bit of sports, that gets my mind off things. And I used to play some pool with my old mates. But with work, that rarely happens anymore.”  


“We could do that,” John suggested. His face turned serious. 

“About what I told you last night,” he began. “When you go back to work on Monday, you won't...”  


“If you want me to keep my mouth shut about you two, then that's what I'll do.” Greg emphasized.  


John nodded. An awkward pause arose.  


“Do you regret telling me? I can keep a secret, John.”  


“No, it's not that. I trust you.” John sighed and leaned back against the wardrobe.  


“But you're not feeling good about it, either,” Greg observed.  


"I'm afraid what will happen when they all know. I don't know how to deal with that," John confessed.  


"With what, exactly?"  


"You know, with people calling us faggots and not taking us seriously anymore and asking which one of us is the woman..."  


Greg snorted involuntarily. "Well, if you want to get up into all that gender crap, you wouldn't have to ask. It's him, of course, he spends absurd amounts of money on his clothes.”  


John laughed.  


“You don't have to be afraid, John. Most people are actually pretty okay with any sexual orientation.”  


"Really," John doubted. "Well, I was raised catholic. In a small town. Not that I cared much for either. My dad would freak out and disown me if he was still alive, god bless his reactionary soul. That's why Harry never told my parents she was gay. And my army mates... God, I don't even want to think about what they would have to say about me.”  


“It doesn't alarm people. They got used to it. We did a lot of work for that. There's still the odd jerk, but you know,” Greg explained.  


“You worked for that? How?"  


"I went to a lot of demos in uni, campaigns and such. I'm bisexual myself."  


John's jaw dropped. His mouth stood open but no words emerged. 

"No," he finally breathed.  


"Erm, yes?" Greg was suddenly unsure. Was John that biased?  


"But you were married. To a woman."  


"Yes, so? I like both. Jodie's a gal, but there were people before her. It's the person who matters to me, not what's dangling or not dangling between their legs."  


John shut his mouth with an audible click.  


"I'm so sorry, Greg. I don't want to come off like a bigot or something. I'm still wrapping my head around this. Around the whole concept of... this." 

John was clearly embarrassed and out of his depth.  


"Yeah, I suppose. It can be confusing," Greg conceded. Especially if people attempted to shove you into boxes your whole life and you continued their efforts on your own, long after they were gone. But he didn't voice that thought just now. John didn't need a lecture.  


"Look, I want to be cool about all this, but I'm freaking out a little. I don't know how to go about this. I've never been with a bloke before. All I know is that I love Sherlock and I want to make him happy."  


"Then focus on that, and fuck what other people think."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Elianara and feisty_one for beta reading this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg felt no guilt about having a lie-in on Sunday. They had played pool until ten o'clock in the evening. Sherlock had won all games, hands down. He complained it was 'just geometry' and deemed it mostly dull. After getting back to Baker Street, Greg had slept like the dead, and still refused to get up even when sunlight through the curtains woke him. He had worked hard the past week, so he just turned around in John's bed a few times and dozed off again, blocking the light with a forearm flung over his eyes. Finally, he got up grudgingly because he had to piss. Greg slipped into track bottoms and a t-shirt and padded downstairs and relieved himself. In the kitchen he clicked on the kettle and began digging through some Erlenmeyer flasks, hunting for a clean mug. 

Suddenly, a door banged shut. Then Greg heard the bathroom door lock click. So one of the two had gotten up as well. But then Greg heard muffled noises through the bathroom door in. He recognized John's voice. At first Greg thought John might be laughing, but who goes into the bathroom to have a good laugh? Was John okay? Was he hurt?  
Greg immediately turned the kettle off and made a step into the direction of the hallway, but then Sherlock thundered into it, in a state of undress. And boy, did Greg have to try not to gawk at his pale chest and legs peaking out under his loosely tied blue silk dressing gown. Ignoring Greg, Sherlock tried opening the door. When it didn't move, he leaned against it. 

"John.” 

No answer, but still those awful sobs, quieter now. 

“John! I didn't mean to. I'd never... I'm sorry. Open the door?" 

Greg thought he'd never see the day Sherlock apologized to anyone. What was going on here? But nothing happened, then it was completely silent. 

"John, let me in." 

Nothing. 

"John!" 

Sherlock turned around abruptly, his dressing gown flaring out around his thighs. He spotted Greg but decided to ignore him to jostle past him into the living room. 

"Are you two all right?" Greg asked, concerned. 

Sherlock didn't answer and returned with a set of lock-picking tools. He got to his knees and chose a tool which he then inserted in the lock. 

"Sherlock, I want to be alone right now. Just give me a minute," John said through the door. 

"Sherlock," Greg said quietly. The detective shot him a glare. Greg just shook his head as if to say no, don't do that, you'll regret this. Reluctantly, Sherlock stopped fiddling with the lock and just knelt on the floor. His shoulders slumped forward, his gown had opened and hung down his slender form. He looked vulnerable and confused. Greg put a hand on his shoulder tentatively. The silk felt incredibly soft and radiated Sherlock's body heat. 

“Come on,” he murmured and patted his shoulder awkwardly, “I have no idea what's going on, but if he wants a little breathing space, give him that.” He tugged on Sherlock's arm until he got up and walked him over to the living room. 

“Sit,” Greg ordered, directing him to his leather chair. Surprisingly, Sherlock did exactly that. He didn't flounce into it in his usual dramatic fashion. He just sat down, put his elbows on his knees, leaned forward and looked down at the floor, gaze unfocused. Attempting to establish a bit of normalcy, Greg went back into the kitchen and started up the kettle again. A moment later there were three cups of tea steeping on the counter. Greg brought one over to Sherlock and put it on the mantel piece beside him when he didn't react. He stopped by the bathroom and said: “Hey John, when you're ready, there's tea. Take your time.” Greg went into the living room, cradling his own mug. They heard the shower being turned on. Greg chose a chair from the table, leaving John's chair untouched. The two were a bit territorial about their arm chairs. 

“Want to tell me what happened?” he addressed Sherlock, who had curled up into himself, arms draped around his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. His curls were sticking out in all directions. 

“I...” he cleared his throat and paused, looking at Greg and then away again. “I hurt John.” 

“How did you hurt him?” 

“I attempted anal intercourse.”

Greg swallowed, hard. No one but Sherlock would describe buggering his boyfriend that clinically and still make it sound sexy, with that voice. Hell. Greg quickly got his mind out of the gutter. 

“So, I guess it didn't work out the way you wanted, then?”

“John was in pain. I... failed.” Sherlock hid his head in his arms and knees. 

“Did you stop when he told you to?” 

“He didn't! But then he started crying and...” Sherlock still concealed his face and his shoulders trembled silently. Greg just waited, uncomfortable but letting Sherlock get it out of his system. He knew Sherlock and guessed comforting would not be accepted from him. 

Sherlock's head shot up and Greg turned around when he heard the door to Sherlock's room open. John walked out gingerly, looking disheveled and a bit red around the eyes. He was wearing his usual jeans and jumper, his hair still wet from the shower. Sherlock looked up at John cautiously. “I did not meant to hurt you, John.” He sounded truly heartbroken. 

John eyed him warily. “Yes, I know that, you stupid git. But it did hurt, you know. I'm not sure I can... do that.” 

“But I researched it, John. That's how you do it.”

“How did you research that?” John wanted to know. 

“I watched a selection of gay pornography.” 

Greg nearly choked on his tea. “Look, I should better get upstairs and give you two some space, yeah,” he spluttered and made for the door. 

“No. Stay,” Sherlock commanded. John shot Greg a helpless look, like he didn't know how to behave in this situation either. 

“Why? You – ”

“Is this not the correct source to research anal sex?” Sherlock interrupted.

“No!” Greg almost cracked up at the idea. 

“Why?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“For starters, pornography is nothing like real-life sex. Things are ... disproportionate and unrealistic. And they almost always skip prep,” Greg added. Why the editors chose to cut one of the sexiest bits, he'd never understand. It was always a highlight to Greg, slicking up and loosening his partner until he was ready for his... never mind. 

“What's prep?” Sherlock inquired. 

“Preparation. You need to stretch and relax the muscle a bit before you try to put anything dick-sized in there.” Greg just truly realized how naively Sherlock approached sex with John if he had to explain that to him. Why was he explaining that to Sherlock? That was John's job. 

“Teach me.” Sherlock looked Greg squarely in the eyes.

“What?” 

“You heard me.”

“Why me? You know, there's, erm, … the internet.”

“My previous research has not yielded the desired results. I need practical experience.” 

“Okay, wow. I can see why you would say that. Your 'research' wasn't very thorough though. There are some sites about safe sex and, you know, for anal play, if you want to me to point you in the right directions, I could...”

“I don't want to you to point me anywhere, Greg, I want you to show us how to do it.”

Greg had a sudden vivid image of his fingers in Sherlock, writhing on the sheets, with John watching while he stroked his cock, ready to be buried balls-deep. Jesus. He needed to get his filthy mind under control. 

“John mentioned you had lots of experience.” 

John shrugged apologetically and shot Greg a 'Sorry, we tell each other everything and he probably knew anyway' look.

“Maybe I do. Never mind that.” Greg tried to be reasonable. “Maybe at this point in your relationship it's not such a good idea to get a third wheel attached. You can just ... experiment with each other. Isn't that enough?” 

“Yes and no. I don't want to experiment on John.” 

“That's a new one,” John half-snorted. 

“It's not acceptable. Not when I hurt you in the process.” Sherlock's gaze went soft as he regarded his lover. It was a rare glance of tenderness that was usually hidden from the rest of the world under a series of frowns and arrogantly raised eyebrows. John slid down on his knees to gather Sherlock in his arms. 

“It's okay,” John smoothed his hands down Sherlock's back and buried his nose in his curls. “You didn't mean to. I don't blame you.” 

Greg got up and left to give them some space. His head was swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to feisty_one, Elianara and shaolingrrl for beta! That scene is trickier with two bathroom doors.


	6. Chapter 6

~John~

The day passed quickly. John was exhausted, so he decided to call it an early night. He had donned his usual boxers and a t-shirt. He still felt the remains of his hangover, despite the secret cure he had so boisterously promoted to Greg. John was done in after this stressful day, tired but still buzzing with nervous energy. A good night's sleep was in order though, he had to be fit for his shift at the surgery tomorrow. 

Sherlock was still fully dressed, sitting upright against the headboard, his laptop on his knees. He probably wasn't going to sleep when John did, but John was used to that. Sherlock usually came to bed in the early hours of the morning, if at all. He was prone to simply collapse on the sofa while thinking. John still appreciated his presence beside him. He preferred for Sherlock to be there when he fell asleep, and since he had voiced that sentiment, Sherlock did him that favor. It felt like such a privilege not to lie in bed alone, as he had done so often, and wish for someone to be there with him.

Thinking of his bed upstairs and its current sole occupant, he sighed and looked at Sherlock. The blue-white glow of the screen illuminated his features. John turned onto to his side and touched Sherlock's slender left hand, which stilled. 

"We should talk about Greg," John said. 

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, his eyes never leaving the screen. 

"I think you came on a bit strong today," John stated. “Also, you didn't ask me if I wanted this. What you proposed," he clarified. 

"Oh," Sherlock made. There was a long, awkward pause. "Should I have?"

"Yes." 

"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," Sherlock maintained.

"It's still something you should talk to me about before you ask another person to give you... well, whatever you want to call that. I'm not sure what to think about that, honestly," John admitted.

"We have a problem, and there is a simple solution," Sherlock pointed out. 

"You know, it isn't a problem for me. I'm fine. We don't have to... have sex that way. " John still felt an unpleasant twinge from their earlier attempt every time he moved. He shuddered to think of trying it again soon. Maybe it just wasn't his cup of tea. 

Sherlock finally turned his intense gaze to John. "But I don't want to withhold any pleasure from you, John. I want to be able to satisfy you perfectly.” John was oddly touched by Sherlock's earnest motivation. He should have anticipated that his perfectionism extended to their love life. “At the moment I don't possess the necessary experience,” Sherlock continued. “Since we currently have an 'expert' living with us who does..."  
As much as he could bring himself to understand Sherlock's reasoning, he still felt uneasy about dragging Greg into this. He had offered him a place to stay to recuperate from his relationship troubles, not to fix theirs. 

"Have you even thought about if Greg wants this before putting him on the spot like that?" John interrupted.

"Oh, come on, it's obvious. He finds us both very attractive. And he's just had a considerable 'dry spell', I believe is the term." Sherlock looked proud at remembering an idiom and at applying it in the correct context.

"Okay, you I can understand. Everybody with eyes thinks you're gorgeous." John pulled Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Sherlock hummed and unsuccessfully tried to hide a one-sided minuscule smile. "But me? I hardly think so. Anyway, how do you know that?"

"I saw you looking last night," Sherlock said, as if that was an answer to John's question.

"Looking where?" John wanted to know.

"At his arse. Everytime he was leaning over the pool table."

"What?” John felt himself blush fiercely. He turned away, embarrassed.

"Oh yes. Not a problem, John, I don't judge. You can look. But don't deny you looked." 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't even... oh God." John hid his face in his palms. 

"He looked, too."

"He what?!" 

"At your arse, John. It's evident he wants you. He wants me, too. But he's too polite. Modesty is restrictive and dull."

"This is confusing," John confessed. He scrubbed his face, feeling its heat. "We're friends. Friends don't do that."

"We were 'friends', too, and we did that," Sherlock retorted.

"Fair point. And what are we now?"

"Partners. Still friends. Same as before. Only we give each other orgasms now and I get to touch you whenever I want." Sherlock did just that and brushed his fingertips along the hairs on John's arm. John shivered at the feathery touch and closed his eyes for a moment.  
"Hmm. Right.” He needed to choose his words carefully. “So we are in a relationship. We can't just go around and pick up people along the way.” 

"If three consenting adults want something, I don't see why they shouldn't get it,” Sherlock objected.

"Because it complicates things. I mean sure, you can get off with someone and not waste a thought about it, but we know each other too well."

"But that's a plus in 'getting each other off'."

"Right, but we still have to work together. Won't it be awkward if we shag Greg and then meet him at a crime scene and... and everybody will know something is off."

"Everybody certainly won't. Those imbeciles wouldn't even notice if I came to a crime scene with my face covered in ejaculate." 

Now here was a thought. John couldn't help but imagine Sherlock like that. His cock twitched, but he was too tired to be in the mood. "Don't give me ideas," he grumbled, turned around and snuggled up against Sherlock. 

"I wouldn't mind trying that. It seems to be quite popular in pornography."

John buried his face on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"How do I live with you," John mumbled. "Stop distracting me. Anyway, we were talking about Greg."

"Yes. You objected that having sex with Greg would complicate things, because people would notice." John could hear the disdain dripping off the word people. “And I rebutted that argument because people are generally too stupid to notice anything. And you care far too much about what people think. Most don't."

"So what about Greg? Let's assume for a moment you are right... "

"I'm always right." 

"Wrong. You thought I didn't want you for two bloody years, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed, his concession reluctant.

"Let's assume Greg wants this," John continued. "Where do we stand on that?" 

"Excellent! We can proceed to fornication," Sherlock quipped, snapping his laptop shut.

"No, I mean, what's his role in all this? We're partners, right? So one day we say 'All right, Greg, let's shag!' and the next day it's back to 'Detective Inspector Lestrade, please bring us some cases'?" 

"Maybe. I thought we could just have lots of sex until one party feels that was enough sex." 

"That's just weird. How would he feel?"

"I don't know how he feels, John. He'll answer yes or no. It's his decision." 

"I still don't think it was a good idea to ask him like that," John demurred.

"How else could I have asked him?" 

"Well, for starters, talk to me first if you invite someone into our bed. The way I look at someone doesn't mean it's okay. I get a say in that." John found that his voice suddenly had quite a bit of steel in it. 

"Very good," Sherlock answered. 

John waited. "Well?"

"What?"

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Oh. Do you want to have sex with L... with Greg and me?"

"I'll have to think about it."


	7. Chapter 7

After John and Sherlock had gone to bed early, Greg decided he would do the same. He had an early start tomorrow, after all. So he brushed his teeth and trudged up to John's room. He dug around in John's wardrobe for a clean t-shirt and comfortable boxer shorts and undressed quickly. Slipping between the soft cotton sheets, he savoured their clean smell. And maybe there was a hint of John's smell in there, too. 

Greg wasn't tired at all. He had slept in late, and after ... well, that was a weird day if he had ever seen one. After that conversation he had hardly known how to interact with John and Sherlock. Thankfully, John had tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and had tried to establish some normality at Baker Street. Then Mrs. Hudson had come up with freshly baked biscuits. Apparently it was her Sunday ritual, as she told them in so many words. Everyone had been distracted by tea and small talk, which Sherlock had hated but he had eaten at least a dozen biscuits, anyway. John had nudged them in his direction unobstrusively. 

It was hard to look at them both, exchanging little discreet touches all day. They were tantalizing together. They embodied all the intimacy he had lost. Greg was torn. He was happy for them and he was jealous of them at the same time. Not that he begrudged them their happiness – but he wanted that, too. And it was even more difficult looking at it from the outside. 

He found that a tiny part of him had retained an admiration of Sherlock through the years that wasn't always entirely professional, though he never indulged it. Greg was of the opinion that anyone who didn't at least fall a little bit in love with the remarkable, tall detective at first sight was either blind or lying. At least until Sherlock opened his sensual mouth to dissect someone's life with scathing observations. Most people snapped out of it then. But Greg hadn't. 

 

Now that he was unattached again, he was free to do whatever he wanted – and pursue whomever he wanted. But Greg had been telling himself for years that it was a spectacularly bad idea to mess around with Sherlock and he had kept it up, because he was right. Not to mention married. And now John had Sherlock, and Greg's common sense couldn't completely assuage the tiny sting of disappointment he'd felt at John's confirmation of that fact. 

So what the hell happened today? Sherlock had candidly asked Greg to show him how to have sex. The way he had said “teach me” could have been taken straight out of the corny porn he had most likely watched for his “research”. Was Sherlock trying to manipulate him? He genuinely cared for John, he had demonstrated that today. But did he care for Greg, too? Was he just planning to use him as a means to an end? John would never allow it. Probably. Best to forget it had happened at all. 

Still, Greg couldn't help but imagine John and Sherlock together. How would their first kiss have taken place? Maybe they had come off a case, still strung out and grinning, crashing their lips together enthusiastically? Or maybe one night Sherlock was bored and decided to try something new and seduced John, who had told Greg that he wasn't into blokes before? Would their first time have been frantic or unhurried? More like a quick handjob in an alley or a good long snogging session on the sofa that ended with hands down their pants? Or perhaps they rubbed their cocks against each other until they both gasped and shuddered. Or maybe Sherlock used his mouth on John, those ridiculous lips wrapped around his cock … 

Greg tried to clamp down on the uninvited images rapidly flooding his mind. He had to think about something else, something unsexy … But it was already too late. He was hard. In John's bed. Hell, that was inappropriate. Had John been tossing and turning at night, unable to stop thinking about Sherlock's pale skin, the way his muscles stretched under it? Had he touched himself here, thinking about touching Sherlock? Did he come in these sheets ... 

Greg finally gave up. He turned onto his back and thrust his hand into his boxers. His cock was hard and ready. He inhaled as he curled his fingers around his glans and squeezed. God, that felt good. Working his thumb over it, he smeared around the wetness he found there. Oh, but he could do with a mouth on him, anything, as long as it was hot and wet and willing. He tried thinking about someone giving him head. That one guy he met at a club once. Greg had been 21. They had snuck off to the loo where he had taken Greg's cock into his mouth and made all sorts of filthy noises while he sucked him off. 

Greg started to masturbate himself with small, rapid jerks, imaging fucking his mouth. But the face that had been eroded by too much time morphed into Sherlock's, bright grey eyes staring up at him. Breathing heavily, he stopped moving. Greg was ashamed. This was so wrong.

But Sherlock had basically invited Greg into their bed. Of course, he wouldn't take them up on the offer. It was just proof that Sherlock had a lot to learn about relationships yet. But one could think, right? The possibilities … As long as this didn't bleed over into his life, Greg could still imagine what it would be like to watch them fuck. That didn't hurt anyone, right? It would be his secret. And maybe he just needed to get this out of his system so he could make rational decisions again.  
How would John's arse look naked and stuffed with cock? Sherlock had wanted to fuck him today, but with a little preparation, John would have been okay. Greg could help with that. He would tell him to lie down on the bed, legs spread wide. John would look spectacular that way. Greg would spread lube on him and slip his fingers in carefully, telling Sherlock what to look out for. Maybe he would tell Sherlock to try it himself and let him squeeze three fingers into John's hole before even allowing him to think about putting his cock in. By the time John would be wet and worked open sufficiently, maybe Greg could suck Sherlock's cock for a bit, getting him nice and slippery. 

Greg wanked himself faster. 

Sherlock would taste great, the musky manly smell filling his nose while he licked and sucked his prick. Maybe Sherlock would even seize his head to show Greg he enjoyed it. Later, Greg would tell John to get on his knees and guide Sherlock into John's dripping hole. He would talk John through the initial discomfort and tell Sherlock to keep pushing until he bottomed out, and keep very still. Maybe John would screw his eyes shut and Greg would pet him while he got used to the sensation of having his arse filled. When Sherlock would start to move, small thrusts at first, Greg would kneel beside him and admire the point where they were joined, lube glistening on John's cheeks and his hole stretched around Sherlock's cock. Gradually, they would pick up speed, and soon enough, maybe John would find that he liked it, his erection hanging heavy between his legs and swinging slightly while Sherlock fucked into him.  
Maybe Greg would start to jerk himself off watching them. Maybe he would ejaculate all over John's arse, providing additional, sticky lubricant for them while Sherlock made his final, hard thrusts into John. 

Greg's hand flew over his cock briskly and firmly. 

Or maybe, when Sherlock was done, he would allow Greg to have a go at John. He would slip his hard and aching cock into John's hole, fucked open and soaked with Sherlock's cum. John would moan at the repeated intrusion but Greg would angle himself so that he hit his prostate with every thrust and fuck John and himself to orgasm ... Greg turned around in John's bed and thrust his hips urgently while he fucked his own hand. With a moan muffled by the pillow, his orgasm tore through him and he felt warm semen pulsing into his hand and his shorts. He lay there for what felt like an eternity, riding out aftershocks. Greg hadn't come like that in ages. 

With a groan, he disentangled his hand from his soiled boxers and turned to get up. He hoped he hadn't got anything on John's sheets. Cleaning himself with his boxers wasn't perfect, but he didn't have anything else at hand. Greg considered going down to the bath room – he had made a right mess of himself. But he decided against it. He couldn't have another shower in the middle of the night, that was too suspicious. Besides, if he was unlucky and he encountered Sherlock, he was going to see right through him. There was always something. Greg's cheeks were already flushed, but now he turned crimson at the idea of Sherlock finding out he had just had a magnificent wank thinking about them. Hell, he would have to control himself severely if he was going to get through his stay here intact. Greg went to the wardrobe and put on clean boxer shorts. His legs were wobbly and he was glad when he was in bed again. At least he would be able to fall asleep quickly now, and not stay up thinking about what he couldn't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on that note, this fic is going on a summer break because of life. 
> 
> Thanks to Elianara and shaolingrrl for beta.


	8. Chapter 8

Monday 

~John~

After his shift, John lingered. He took some time changing into his street clothes. He needed a quiet moment to himself before heading home. To Sherlock. And to Greg. What was going on with his life lately? He had complained that nothing happened to him, and then Sherlock happened to him. And things just kept happening. 

As if embarking on this relationship wasn't exciting enough in it self, no, Sherlock had to up the ante and add someone else to the equation. His sense of boundaries was crap. John wasn't sure what the rules were any more. He had experience in monogamous relationships and a lot of one-night stands. John had never had a partner before who was open to the idea of sleeping with more with one person at a time. But then again, Sherlock never cared for any rules and always did what he wanted anyway. Was that going to be a problem for them? 

At first, John had recoiled at the idea of inviting Greg, of all people. Greg was his friend, and sort of Sherlock's colleague. He hadn't thought of Greg like that at all, unlike Sherlock, whom he fancied from day one, or at least grudgingly admitted was devastatingly attractive. As John searched his heart, after the initial shock and insecurities had abated, he found that he did not recoil at the idea. They all trusted each other with their lives. Literally. 

He did not need any more proof that Sherlock was his. So if this was something Sherlock wanted to do together with Greg, this would not endanger what they had built together over the years. And he would like to be comfortable with having proper sex with Sherlock. While he was a doctor and knew how to find a prostate, he had never had sex with a man and would welcome the opportunity to learn. He was still freaked out by the idea of being penetrated. At least, apparently Greg knew what he was doing. That was comforting to know. Their talk had actually made John feel loads better. 

John tried to imagine kissing Greg. Hm, no, awkward. He imagined Greg kissing Sherlock. Alright, that was a bit sexy. But Sherlock in every slightly sexy situation inevitably turned him on. What about Greg fucking him? No, that wasn't a nice thought. The last time Sherlock had tried that was still present in his mind, thank you very much. He'd maybe be willing to try it again with proper supervision and instructions. His cheeks coloured at the idea of Greg directing Sherlock in that patient way of his. What about Greg fucking Sherlock? That image went straight to his cock. He loved the look of Sherlock losing himself to pleasure. John admitted that he had a bit of a voyeuristic streak in him. Even better, if he could fuck Sherlock... or even Greg... Now that was an image to behold. 

John was much more comfortable with the idea of being the one doing the fucking. He had a good track record of that. And John had seen Greg lean over the pool table and the fabric of his trousers stretching tight over his arse. He wouldn't be averse to that. But Sherlock seemed so set in his idea of penetrating John. They hadn't really talked about it. John sighed. Well, maybe, they would have to. And frankly, it would be nice to have Greg there as back-up and generally a reasonable person. John made his decision. He was going to tell Sherlock yes. He felt a bit roguish and adventurous leaving the clinic. Trust Sherlock to make his life more exciting. 

On the way to the tube, still thinking about how an additional person suddenly added a great variety of positions they could try, it suddenly hit him. If they were going to do that any time soon, they weren't exactly well-stocked. John changed directions and headed towards a Boots. He quickly picked up the cheapest lube and a box of condoms. While he was there, he got a new bottle of shampoo, to sort of cover it up. When he went to the till, he tried not to make eye contact with the cashier and mumbled a thank you. On the way into the tube, he texted Sherlock. 

Let's try it. 

The answering text arrived instantaneously.

Of course. SH 

Tuesday  
~Greg~

When Greg went to NSY on Tuesday after spending all of Monday in court, a figurative mountain of paperwork was sitting on his desk. Good, something to distract him from all the gay drama. After a hasty breakfast, which was a Pret sandwich and an apple (yes, healthy food, go for life change while at it) his mobile pinged. 

I still need your counsel. Would Thursday be convenient for instructions? SH 

No, Sherlock. Piss off. We talked about this. 

It would help me tremendously to acquire new data. SH

Greg read it and snorted amusedly. Yes, that was just so Sherlock. Still no. He decided not to reply and continued typing. 

Your initial reaction was favourable. Your pupils dilated and your pulse accelerated when I suggested you help us. SH

Shit, Sherlock saw. No, he observed him. Greg felt caught out. Curse his stupid body. He was not going to fuck it up with two of his best mates, even if they were dead sexy together. It simply was no good. Suddenly he got Depeche Mode stuck in his head. 

Leave me out of this. This is not what normal couples do.

We are not a normal couple. SH 

He could almost hear the disdain accompanying those words. Case in point.

Have you even asked John if he's OK with this or are you not paying attention again?

John agrees this would be a favourable situation. Besides, he is attracted to you. SH

Greg almost fell out of his chair. What?! He pinched himself, hard. This was probably one of his inappropriate sexy day dreams (which, admittedly, he had). A bit more often since he was living with John and Sherlock. John. John liked him. In that way? But he said he wasn't attracted to men except for Sherlock. 

He checked out your arse every time you were leaning over the pool table. SH

Greg felt oddly flattered and heat crept into his face. He wanted to pretend he hadn't read this, to keep things simple and under control. But a tiny voice inside him rejoiced, like he had just gotten a love letter from his crush in high school for whom he lusted after from afar. For the first time he knew for a fact the feeling was mutual... Shit. How on earth was he going to deal with this? His mobile pinged again.

Greg? It's John, I just caught Sherlock texting this. Bit not good. Sorry. We need to talk. 

I've been telling you exactly that. SH

I'll make him stop now. Let's chat later? 

OK. I'll be home in the evening. 

Home. Greg had used that word. He stared at it on the screen. It wasn't his home. But it felt like it was. 

Greg had never been so tempted in his life. He had been fantasizing about Sherlock's pale lean body, which was attached to that wicked mind which probably could most certainly come up with all sorts of mischief in bed. He'd had one chance, years ago, but it had been more than a bit not good. 

Sherlock had been high. Greg had just been trying to get him home safely to his dingy flat when Sherlock had started rubbing himself on Greg's thigh and pushing his tongue into his ear. It had taken all his mental strength and restraint to turn Sherlock down, but Greg hadn't taken advantage of the situation and they had never talked about it since. That had been that. Greg had thought about it from time to time, though. The decent thing to do would have been to forget that it had ever happened. But once he had started seeing Sherlock that way, it could not be unseen. 

Now Sherlock had John and John had Sherlock. They were utterly delectable together and even seeing them kissing innocently had turned Greg on in a lot more ways than he was comfortable with. But he knew better than to rush down that road. Greg had been in a polyamorous relationship once and it hadn't worked out. Jealousy had gotten the better of them all and he just wasn't cut out that way. It had been amazing for a time, but the ending had been almost as ugly as the sex was mind-blowing. He decided he needed to take a break, have a smoke outside and think things over. 

 

~Sherlock~

Icy march wind blew across the parts of Sherlock's face that his scarf did not cover. He scanned the row of shops, some of them just opening at 10 am in the morning. Sherlock found the discreet entrance he was looking for and was glad to be engulfed by warmth. Descending a winding staircase, he entered what was, according to online reviews, one of the most prestigious of London sex shops. Sleek black shelves lined the spacious and well-lit interior. Toys in garish colours were sitting on them, each one more ridiculous than the last. 

A store clerk looked up from her magazine at the counter (InTouch, ugh). Her make-up was fresh and her unbecoming shade of lipstick too thick at the start of the day.  
“Welcome to Great Expectations,” she piped. “How can I help y...”  
She stopped mid-sentence and her eyes widened when she took in Sherlock. “You're... you're... “  
Oh dear God, a _fan._ This was turning out to be a bad idea. Just his luck.  
“Yes, I'm, I'm,” he snapped, already impatient to get this over with. “You can help me by pointing out some of your merchandise or by shutting up entirely.” 

“I'm sorry, sir.” At least she did have a professional bone in her body. She straightened and visibly forced herself to not stare at him like a star-struck teenage girl. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and rounded the counter. “What merchandise are you interested in?” 

“I need lubricant.”

She walked towards a whole shelf lined with bottles of various shapes and sizes.

“What sort did you have in mind?” 

“A good one.” 

“Okay ... Is it for toys or for skin?” 

“Skin. Does it matter?”

“Well, yes, for toys you'll want a silicone-based lube. But since you don't need that, here are some of our regular ones.” She pointed toward a shelf. Sherlock inspected some of the stupidly decorated bottles. Most had soft-focus pictures of female body parts on them. 

“Which one do you recommend for anal intercourse?” The clerk's breathing hitched, but she tried to cling to the professional act. 

“Well... it doesn't really matter. But personally, I think this one is nice.” 

She pointed out at tester bottle and took it from the shelf. “Would you like to try it?” She clicked open the bottle. An artificial smell emerged. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. 

“No scents.” His gaze scanned the woman. Obviously no intercourse in the past weeks, much less anal. He didn't know how on earth she qualified for the job. How a heterosexual woman living alone with a ridiculously small, overbred, and chronically drooling chihuahua would have sufficient experience on how to advise a customer on anal intercourse he could simply not fathom.

“Okay.” She put it back. Sherlock took a random bottle from the shelf and inspected the ingredients. Water, glycerine, hydroxyethyl cellulose...

“How about --” 

“I don't need you anymore,” Sherlock dismissed her. 

“Oh... okay.” She slunk back from the shelf, crushed. “Let me know when you do.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock answered non-committally, reading further ingredients and comparing products. His focus gravitated towards some lubes that the more discreet labels claimed were organic. He rolled his eyes. How some people translated organic to toxin-free and healthy right now irritated him to no end. Solanaceae were organic, too, for crying out loud. 

He poured a little bit out and tested the viscosity between his fingers. Yes, slippery, good texture. But how was he going to decide which one he preferred without applying it to the relevant body parts? He tried out a few more and decided to get small sizes of each and test them all.


	9. Chapter 9

~Sherlock~ 

After Sherlock got home from his shopping foray, he stashed his purchases in the kitchen. Squeezing out a drop of each lube, he got a testing set-up ready. That entertained him for a bit. But he found himself distracted. Greg had mentioned interviews concerning the double murder today. Firing up his laptop, he clicked to where he could stream the video feed of NSY's interrogation rooms, unbeknownst courtesy of Mycroft. Sherlock prodded and examined the samples under his microscope just to occupy himself until he heard the audio stream rustle and a chair scraping across the linoleum floor. Sherlock abandoned his microscope in favour of watching Greg enter the room. 

“Mr. Carson, thank you for coming in today.” Greg shook his hand. The young man at the opposite side of the table had blonde, short hair artfully styled with a lot of product. His face was broad, open and quite attractive. He was wearing business attire, very formal, with a tie. All that formal exterior couldn't hide the bags under his eyes. Recent sleep deprivation. Skin irritation on the nostrils and upper lips.

“I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. First off, I'm very sorry for your loss. I know it's an inconvenience, but we'll try to keep this interview to the point, all right?”

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that,” the young man answered. Currently, he was leaning back in his chair keeping his arms crossed.

“Now, your first name is Roderick?” 

“Yes. I go by Rory.”

Lestrade proceeded with boring things like Carson's birthday (he was 27), his address, his work. Sherlock perked up when he learned that 'Rory' had a bachelor's degree in economics and worked at his father's company. Apparently they had been grooming him to take over the paternal business. When Greg asked him about his relationship with his dad, all sorts of empty bromides spewed from the young business associate's mouth. Role model, inspiration, self-made man, like to be him one day, yadayada. He had probably been drilled to sing Arthur Carson's praise on command at business dinners. During the conversation, he frequently used handkerchied to dab at his runny nose.

“So I understand that your mother's name was Olivia, and that Marita was your stepmother?” 

The terminology clearly irritated Rory, but his reaction was minute. A small contraction of his bushy blonde brows. “My mother died when I was twelve. Dad felt it was necessary to marry again.” 

“How long have they been married?” 

“For 14 or 15 years, I think.” 

“How would you describe their marriage?” 

“They were... well, she was cheating on him,” he declared with disdain. 

“With whom?” 

“Christopher White.” 

“And who is that?” Greg inquired.

“He's the chairman of the Apollo Foundation.”

Sherlock conjured up the leaflet he had found in Marita Carson's purse in his mind. It was blue, tastefully laid out, for a fundraising gala to be held by said Apollo Foundation on Saturday, March 31st, 7 pm at the Rivoli ballroom. He put it aside for now and continued listening to the interview. 

“How do they know each other?” Greg asked. 

“She was very involved with the foundation. She fancied herself an artist but she had no skills, so she just hung out with them, especially with Mr. White. My dad is ... was also a sponsor.”

Sherlock noted the present tense. It was common to not switch for people when they had had a recent loss. Rory seemed to have no trouble at all to think of Marita in the past and made the switch instantly. But not with his father. Interesting. 

“So do you think your father knew about this affair?” 

“Yes. It's common knowledge. News like that travels fast in our circles,” he smirked. 

Sherlock observed Greg's reaction to that sardonic little smile. He seemed a little taken aback, but his face betrayed nothing and he tried to get into the emotional state of the respondent. At times like these, Sherlock admired his control and his empathy. 

“So how long do you reckon your father knew about Mr. White and your stepmother?” Very good, draw him out with the word he hadn't liked. New Scotland Yard wasn't entirely doomed after all if they had Lestrade. Greg, he reminded himself. 

“Since Wednesday,” Rory answered directly. He rubbed at his nose again. When he brought his hand up and his sleeve moved, Sherlock spotted a faded stamp in the distinctive shape of a five-pointed star with a hole in the middle on his right wrist. It looked familiar. Where had he seen this symbol before? 

“And how did he find out?” 

“Serena told him.” 

“That's your sister, right? How did he react?” 

“He had some whiskey and read the paper.” Rory's incredulity at that British reaction shone through. “She denied everything, of course. He even believed her.” 

So there was a potential motive here. But this didn't sound like a jealousy murder to Sherlock at all. 

“Now, I know this is hard for you to hear. But we found this gun in your father's hand.” Greg showed him picture of the Glock. “Do you know if he owned a gun like this?” 

“I don't know. I haven't seen it. Dad hated guns.” 

“So he didn't own this gun, you think?” 

“I don't think so, no.” 

“Can you tell my where you were on Friday evening between 10 and 11 pm?” 

Rory's face tensed up. He shifted nervously in his seat. 

“It's just a routine question, so don't worry. My job is to simply collect and analyse evidence and a big part of that involves talking to people and figuring out who was where at what time. Can you tell my where you were on Friday?” 

“I was with friends,” Rory answered evasively. 

“At home, or...?” 

Rory got defensive. “No, somewhere else... Look, if you ask them, they can confirm I was with them, okay?” 

“A location would really be helpful, though,” Greg said matter-of-factly. 

“That's private!” 

Greg backed off and asked a few non-offensive questions, but the young man was clearly agitated now and when Greg subtly asked again, he got threatened with a lawyer. At the end of the interview, Greg asked him to write down the numbers of his friends so the Yard could can contact them. 

Sherlock clicked the feed shut when both men left the room and filed away the information he had gathered.

~Greg~

Greg dropped the numbers Rory had written down on Sally's desk. 

“Check these for an alibi, please. The son claims to have been with some friends on Friday, but he won't tell me where.” 

“Yes, sir!” Sally responded with a mock salute, and he stared at her, not laughing. He was exhausted. The interview was only one appointment of a gruelling Tuesday, and he had to go to court in a bit. Damn that stupid case, this one was much more interesting, and already he wanted nothing more than to go home. Some of his emotions must have shown on his face.

“Hey, are you all right?” Sally asked him with unusual solicitude. “I couldn't help but overhear what the freak said on Friday. It's not true, is it.” Sally didn't phrase that as a question. 

“Yes, it is.” Greg exhaled. “I've been better.” 

“If you need anything...” Sally offered half-heartedly. 

“Right, thanks. I would appreciate it if you would stop calling Sherlock that.” 

Sally stared at him. A crease appeared between her brows. 

“What, I offer you help, and you ask me to do something nice for _him_?”

“I'm asking you to be professional, Sergeant Donovan. Please check those alibis.” 

He wasn't comfortable with Sally knowing to much about him anyway. Things she knew had a way of getting around, and he didn't approve of gossip. If she knew about him staying with John and Sherlock... 

Hot anger surged inside him. He turned around and went to his office. He didn't want to think about what people thought. He had told John his sentiments about that sort of anxiety. He was proud to be Sherlock's and John's whatever he was to them, and who was she to judge Sherlock. Greg slammed his folder onto his desk. She didn't know Sherlock like he did. He thought of Sherlock giving him one of his shy, lopsided smiles. The real one, with mirth twinkling in his eyes, no the fake one he gave to strangers and clients. He was overwhelmed by the affection that swept through him. He'd do anything for Sherlock. Fuck it. Yes, he might as well be all the way in. He was going to do it. In a spur of the moment decision, he opened a private tab on his computer and ordered some lube online. Express delivery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Winter time is writing time. Because of the long break, you get two chapters.  
> Gigantic thanks to shaolingrrl and Elianara.


	10. Chapter 10

On his way up the stairs, Greg's shoes left small puddles from the sleet that had started up on his way to Baker Street. He was exhausted, but adrenaline washed through him when he thought of the conversation that lay ahead of him. His earlier resolve had not faltered, but he felt a lot more insecure about himself. He needed to say his piece, needed to establish where he stood in all this. They could either accept or not. He could not even imagine the awkwardness that might ensue. Well, better to get it over with. 

Greg steeled himself before he opened the door. He was prepared to greet either Sherlock or John or both, but encountered only darkness. The living room was lit only by the lamp beside the sofa, upon which Sherlock had passed out, fully dressed. He lay on his side, clutching a book that had fallen shut with his hand between the pages. 

Greg exhaled silently and smiled. Sherlock was out like a light. His mouth stood slightly open and he snored softly. His face was relaxed and he looked adorable. Quietly, Greg shut the door behind him and with great care not to rouse Sherlock. He fumbled briefly in his coat pocket and took out his phone. He stowed away his shoes, then his trench coat. Carefully, he tip-toed toward to coffee table and recorded a video of Sherlock snoring innocently. That was certainly going in his collection. 

Recording sneaky videos and taking covert pictures of Sherlock was a rather peculiar hobby. For as long as Greg had known him, Sherlock had always insisted emphatically that he didn't do certain things that other people had to do. Greg had immediately called bullshit on that and since then had made it is solemn duty to prove Sherlock wrong. 

“I've never touched something as hideous as a hamburger in my life,” resulted in a picture snapped with Sherlock walking away from a fast food store after a long stake-out, his face buried in a bun. “I never sleep during cases,” had resulted in a pic of Sherlock collapsed over the table in Greg's office when he had just gone out to get some coffee while Sherlock viewed some files. When John had called him to get Sherlock home after that Adler woman drugged him he had been so out of it been so out of it that Greg almost felt guilty, but didn't think he'd ever get another chance to prove Sherlock drooled when he was asleep. Also, Greg would have parted with a tenner to have had his phone ready the other day when Sherlock had walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his head, because that would prove Sherlock was a lot more involved with self-grooming than he would ever admit. Ha. 

It was Greg's pleasure to whip out any of these officially documented incidents whenever Sherlock bothered him or threaten to show them to other people whenever the detective grew quite insufferable. Sure, it was a spot of blackmail. But it worked. Sherlock's vanity at least kept him in check for little bit. Also, as a side effect, he had lots of cute Sherlock pictures. That they actually served some kind of purpose was his excuse for behavior bordering on stalking. 

When Greg was finished, he put his phone on the coffee table and stooped to pull a quilt over Sherlock. It wasn't exactly warm in here. He was about to pull himself away from Sherlock when his phone rang too loudly. Greg jumped, swore under his breath and hurried to silence the vibrating noisemaker. Sherlock startled awake and grumpily cracked his eyes open. 

“Sorry,” Greg muttered, and for the first time looked down at his display to see who was calling. His heart sank when he saw Jodie's name flash on the screen. In an automatic reaction, he picked up the call. 

“Gregory,” she greeted him curtly. 

“Hey,” he answered. His stomach was in knots. His earlier anger had long since dissipated and now he just felt nervous and didn't know what to say. 

“Look, I –“ 

With surprising speed for someone who had just woken up, Sherlock shot up from the sofa and snatched Greg's phone from him. 

“Hello, Mrs. Lestrade. Your husband's lawyer will be in touch with you any day now. Have a good evening!” Sherlock declaimed in a fuck-off friendly voice and then ended the call. 

Greg's mouth stood open slightly. 

“What the fuck, Sherlock,” he said tonelessly. 

Sherlock held out his phone to him. 

“You're welcome.”

“Maybe it was imp – “

“Nothing she has to say to you will result in anything beneficial. Unlike you, I seem to have an excellent memory of the last time this happened.”  
Greg remembered the abysmal Christmas party with Sherlock calling out in front of everyone what Jodie had done then. And done again since without wasting a thought of how it would affect Greg.

“I wanted – “

“You should get a lawyer and avoid all further conversation. Do you want to be at this point again in a year?”

Greg wasn't making a move to take the phone back. Sherlock frowned, and thumbed a number into Greg's phone.

“Owes me a favor. Just call her and tell her you're with me.” 

Greg was still stunned. But then again, Sherlock was probably right. As much as he wanted to forgive Jodie and go back home, he had found the strength to walk away from this wreck of a marriage once. Talking to her would most likely result in her apologetically claiming to want to change and that wasn't going to happen. Greg admitted to himself that he was glad Sherlock had saved him from that conversation. 

Sighing, he let himself fall into the sofa. It still felt warm were Sherlock had slept. It was nice. 

Sherlock sniffed and straightened his wrinkled shirt. Then he stalked off to the loo. 

Greg took moment to collect himself. His earlier good mood and resolve to talk to Sherlock and John had evaporated. Jodie was interfering with his life even now and that would probably go on for quite a while yet. Maybe he should get a lawyer. Better get it over with now. He called the number Sherlock had given him and made an appointment. When he was in the process of saying goodbye, Sherlock returned and perched on the cushion next to him. Greg turned towards him and opened his mouth to – 

“Would you like a blow job?” Sherlock inquired casually. 

“What!” 

“You're stressed.” 

“Yes, I am!” Greg asserted emphatically. 

“John finds it relaxing. He'd probably offer you tea or something. I can't make good tea.” Sherlock scowled. 

Greg took a deep breath and looked at his friend. 

“We need to talk about this. And John needs to be here for that, too.” 

Greg shamefully thought about his fantasies involving Sherlock and what he just offered. Awkward silence ensued. 

Thankfully, John arrived within the moment, carrying a Tesco bag up the stairs. 

“Hey, you” he greeted them. “What's the matter? You look miffed.” 

“I offered Greg a blow job and he refused,” Sherlock complained.

“Right,” John said with a slight pause. Greg sunk into himself. 

“I'm going to need food before any of this, _any_ of this can be processed rationally. And one of you is going to help me,” John announced. He proceeded into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Sherlock, whatever orgy you have planned, it's not going to happen in the kitchen. Clean this up. Now.” 

Sherlock bounced off the sofa and removed several bottles from the kitchen table. Then he disappeared into his room and slammed the door shut.

“I'll help,” Greg offered and peeled himself off the sofa. 

“Thanks.”

John unpacked the shopping and shoved some vegetables towards Greg.

“You can cut this up if you want.” Greg was glad for the distraction. John had a tomato-based sauce and pasta ready to eat in no time. 

“Sorry for snapping at you. I get cranky when I'm hungry,” John apologized.

“No problem. It looks delicious.” 

“It's just pasta, nothing fancy,” John demurred. 

“Sherlock! Dinner!” 

***

When the dishes were soaking in the sink, John sat down with his arms crossed.  


“OK, let's … “ he groped for a word “... talk,” he finished lamely. 

“So, I've had a chance to think about this. Have you?” he asked Greg. 

“Yeah,” Greg answered. 

“That's good,” John said awkwardly. “And, will you... erm...” 

“Will you teach us how to shag or not?” Sherlock interrupted rudely. 

John let his head fall forward in defeat. 

“Jesus.”

Greg chuckled. Trust Sherlock to defuse the situation. Sometimes his approach was direct, but you couldn't deny it was very effective. Sherlock's bright eyes glared at Greg intensely. He was waiting for an answer. 

Greg cleared his throat. 

“It's not that I don't want to do it. Seriously, look at you two...” He trailed off.

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

“But I worry about what happens after. To be honest, I tried that sort of thing once before and it just... It got really weird.” 

“Describe the situation that 'got weird',” Sherlock demanded.

“Well, there was this girl, and we were together, and she was in love with this bloke who I also thought was nice, and we tried that for a bit. He was open to experiment, and honestly, that was some of the best sex I've ever had. But then Matt and I grew closer, we became friends, and she became jealous when we were meeting without her, even just to hang out... Well, it all turned very ugly very fast.”

“I'm sorry you had a bad experience,” John said kindly.

Sherlock looked pensive. 

“At least I learned something. Life, right.” Greg chuckled humourlessly. 

“What did you learn?” Sherlock asked. 

“That it's very important in any relationship to state your expectations. And to talk about it as they change, if they do. Implicit is not enough. And talk about it, if you feel something is not right.” 

Greg felt a twinge of discomfort at the last statement. Jodie hadn't talked to him. 

“Then at least you can decide if you want to work it out together or if it just isn't meant to be.”

John remained silent but nodded once. 

“So, full disclosure on my end: I like you both. A lot. I want to be able to work with you in the future. I also want to help you figure this out, and if you want me to be there, I'll try to help in any way I can.”

“I... I think I'd be all right with that. I wouldn't have suggested it, because I don't want this to mess up our work either. Also, in the spirit of what you just said: I don't want to be the one on the bottom, I suppose?” John looked over to Greg for reassurance. He nodded encouragingly. 

“Just because I didn't get it right the first time,” Sherlock said angrily. “I can improve, Greg will help me...” 

“No, I'm saying, I don't want that at all.” 

Sherlock shut up and stared at John. “But then how... Oh.” 

His cheeks turned slightly pink. 

“You... you want me... to...” Greg had rarely seen Sherlock so flustered. 

“I suppose it's not out of character for you to want to top,” Greg said to Sherlock mildly.

John chuckled. “I'd say.” 

“But I never did that before,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, well, neither have I,” John snapped.

“It's new for both of you. That's okay,” Greg appeased them. “When I'm with a bloke, I actually prefer it. It can be very... intense.” Greg smiled. 

“So how about this: I'll show you what can be done, and then you can decide what you like and what works for you.”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock declared. 

“And I have one condition,” Greg continued. “I need to know that you two have made up your minds about this and this is to be a one-off situation. I'll help you, but I won't intrude. You two belong together and I don't want to be the one to muck it all up.”


	11. Chapter 11

Greg was dreaming. He was embracing someone and pushing that someone against a wall. The person's features were blurry and dream-like. It didn't matter who it was because it felt fantastic. He felt an increasing pressure on his left arm, right above his elbow. Someone was trying to pull him away from snogging the mystery person. Fat chance. He tried to shake the hand off, but he didn't succeed. The grip got tighter and grew more uncomfortable by the second. Greg grew annoyed. He just wanted to be left in peace and what was that person thinking anyway, intruding on him like that?

Suddenly he felt a sharp pinch in the crook of his arm. He jerked around and shook his arm, while he formed a fist with the other hand and instinctively threw a punch. He found himself in the dark and in a horizontal position instead of up against a wall. There was someone in the room with him, holding him down. Instinct and training took over. Greg panicked and struggled free, which also made him fall out of the bed, taking his attacker with him. Something crunched and shattered. There was a brief and brutal struggle. 

“Greg”, his attacker panted when he had gained the upper hand, “Stop, it's me.” 

Greg instantly recognized Sherlock's voice. He let his guard down, but adrenaline was still surging through him and he didn't exactly relax his muscles. For the first time since waking up, he consciously noticed his surroundings. They were on the floor in John's room. There was a dark patch on the mussed up sheets. And he still felt an uncomfortable pressure on his arm – was that a tourniquet? Oh God, had Sherlock... he wouldn't... 

He tried to reach and free his arm, but Sherlock was still on top of him. 

“What did you do to me,” he growled. 

“I was taking a blood sample,” Sherlock hissed, holding him down. “You've made a right mess of it.” 

“Are you out of your bloody mind?”

Sherlock released the tourniquet and Greg winced as blood flowed back into his numbing limb. Sherlock had to move for that and Greg realized suddenly that he had a length of pyjama-clad detective flush up against him. One of Sherlock's long legs was pressed directly on his crotch. To his horror, his arm was not the only extremity filling with blood now. 

“You're insane. What do you want with my blood? No, wait, don't answer that.” 

“I was going to test it so you can sleep with us,” Sherlock rumbled into his ear. His breath made Greg shudder and his cock gave an involuntary pulse.

“Get off me, you crazy sod,” he protested.

“Why should I? You obviously like having me here.” Sherlock squeezed his thighs around Greg's leg, still holding him in a death grip, still pressing his leg up against Greg's growing erection. It took all Greg's willpower not to thrust against him. 

“Let me – go” he pressed out between clenched teeth. 

The door banged open and the light went on. They turned their gazes to behold the spectacle of John Watson in full intruder alert mode wearing nothing but pants and a Sig. His eyes were dangerously narrowed, but when he spotted the two men on the floor, he pointed the muzzle at the floor and clicked on the safety. 

“What the _hell_ is going on here.” It was not a question, it was a demand to know.   
It visibly took him a while to dial down a notch from soldier mode to bloody angry John mode. 

Sherlock finally scrambled off Greg. Greg just lay there, dazed, and slowly inspected the damage in the light. His arm was okay, there was a bit of blood still oozing out of his vein. A crushed vial lay on the floor and a stain of blood decorated the linen. John observed the same setup, taking it all in and came to his conclusion quickly.

“Damn it, Sherlock, we talked about this.”

Sherlock was standing next to the bed wearing a pyjama and a pair of latex gloves. He looked a bit guilty, his shoulders hanging and his eyes squinting into the light. 

John put his gun on the writing desk and walked over to Greg. He extended his hand to help him up. Greg took it gratefully, since the adrenaline was wearing off rapidly, leaving exhaustion in his wake. 

“Are you okay?” 

Greg stood on wobbly legs and nodded.

“I think so.” His back hurt from where he hit the ground while falling. 

“Let's see your arm.” 

Greg obeyed automatically.

“Right. I'd like to disinfect that. Downstairs.” He let go of Greg's arm and glared at Sherlock. “Both of you.” 

They marched into the kitchen. John ordered them both to sit down while he ducked into the bathroom to get his kit. He took out an antiseptic wipe and cleaned the puncture wound which had split open when the needle was torn out by Greg's violent reaction. Then John applied a patch. No one talked. When Greg was finished, John let go of him and turned to Sherlock. He touched his chin and turned his face into the kitchen light. There was a small lesion across his right cheekbone where Greg had accidentally hit him when he woke up. Sherlock was going to sport a nice bruise tomorrow. Sherlock's face got the same treatment. 

“Anything I'm not seeing?” John asked. 

“I fell on my back. It's probably nothing,” Greg muttered. John asked him to take his t-shirt off and made him do a few movements while he examined him. 

“Well, that's going to be nice and purple in the morning,” he remarked eventually. “I'll get you some cool packs.” He walked to the fridge and came back with two cool packs, one for Greg's back and one for Sherlock's face. 

“OK,” John sighed when everyone was adequately supplied. “So, I suppose that you didn't quite understand: Not only is it inappropriate to draw my blood when I sleep but this extends to pretty much everyone else,” he addressed Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked defiant. 

“Well, I'll say it again: Don't, for the love of God, take blood samples from non-consenting people! Especially not professionals trained in hand-to-hand-combat like me and Greg.” John exhaled. “Is that clear?” Greg got a sense of what John would have been like in the army. Magnificent. 

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Jolly good,” John replied. “Thank God that you can control yourself, Greg. I'm not so sure I could have done the same.”

Greg nodded. He folded his arms across his chest, he was getting cold in the chilly kitchen. Sherlock stared at his naked chest unabashedly. 

“You are quite hirsute,” he remarked. 

Greg blushed. 

“Shut up,” John reprimanded him. “I'm not done with you. Greg, would you please put your shirt back on, it's distracting Sherlock.” 

Greg complied gladly. 

“So why did you feel the need to take Greg's blood tonight?” 

Sherlock remained silent and picked up a bit of copper wire from the table.

“Practice? Experiment? Spontaneous vampirism?” John looked at Greg. “He's done this to me before. Once. He needed it for a case.” 

“I wanted to test for STDs,” Sherlock replied, fiddling around with the wire and twisting it around his finger.

“Jesus. You could have just asked,” John said. 

“It's easier that way.” 

Greg shook his head. That was typical. 

“OK, for what it's worth, don't ever do anything like that to me again. I could have hurt you.” Greg looked Sherlock straight in the eye until he lowered his gaze to his hands and nodded. His hair was in state of disarray. Despite being angry, Greg wanted to run his hands through it. 

“Also, John is right. Why didn't you just ask me?” 

Sherlock remained silent. 

“I got tested after... after I knew about Jodie's... well.” Greg swallowed. John squeezed his hand, understanding. Greg relished the warm hand on his. 

“But there was nothing. I'm clean.” 

He remembered how tense he had been, waiting for the results. He had been so disappointed in Jodie, and if she'd gotten something somewhere... Greg forced his thoughts off that road. They just sat at the table for a while. Sherlock had twisted the copper wire into an intricate knot. John still covered Greg's hand with his, and Greg just tried to breathe. It should have been uncomfortable, but it was nice, just having someone touch him. 

John cleared his throat. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock met John's gaze. 

“Apologize to Greg.” 

Sherlock looked petulant. 

“Now.”

“How do you suggest I do that?” Sherlock wanted to know, throwing the wire into the darkness. 

“Don't be like that. You know the concept.” 

“Like I apologize to you?” 

“Yes. Just say you're sorry and then we can all go back to bed.” 

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he got off the kitchen chair. He sashayed around the kitchen table and got on his knees before Greg. 

“What...” Greg scrambled back on his chair. “Sherlock, you don't have to kneel to ap... Oh.” 

All the air went out of Greg's lungs at once when Sherlock's nose touched his crotch.   
His warm breath ghosted over his flaccid penis and Greg clenched John's hand in alarm.

“John, what...” 

John sighed, exasperated but amused. He petted Greg's hand. 

“That's not what I meant, Sherlock.”

“But that's how I apologize to you.” 

The words tickled on Greg's thighs. Greg felt light-headed as for the second time tonight all his blood was needed elsewhere. 

“Well, it's as good as anything, really, if Greg is up for that. Are you?”

Greg swallowed. His throat had gone very dry all of a sudden. He was definitely up for that. 

“Of course he is. I watched you earlier. I know,” Sherlock purred.

“Y... yeah,” Greg rasped, short of breath.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was now mouthing Greg through the fabric of his pants and his cock twitched between his lips. 

“Oh God.” 

“I wonder,” Sherlock murmured when he pulled off Greg's pants and gestured him to lift his arse, “since you are clean, would you mind coming in my mouth?” 

Greg shivered at the idea. His thick hard cock was exposed to the frigid air for a second, but then Sherlock licked his lips and clamped them around the head firmly. The pressure was so intense that Greg jerked. 

“Fuck,” he exclaimed. “Ow! Too much ...” 

“Sherlock, be gentle,” John said breathlessly. He was watching intently. “Do it like I like it.” 

Sherlock sat back on his heels and seemed to consider this for a moment. Greg was relieved that the pressure was gone, but he was eager to thrust between those lips. Sherlock then licked a stripe up his cock while making eye contact. Greg melted. He was so beautiful. He then licked at his foreskin, just playful nips while coating him in saliva very thoroughly. Greg moaned, half turned on and half impatient. This wasn't enough. When Sherlock made no sign of changing his pattern, Greg couldn't help himself. 

“Go on, then,” he said quietly. And then Sherlock wrapped his lips around him and let him into his mouth. It was hot and wet and perfect. He hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head. Greg restrained himself from fucking into him, but hell he was close. The sight of the detective above him, lips glistening with saliva, grey eyes staring up at him, the little wet squelches – 

Greg thrust roughly into the tight ring of lips and tongue once. He just couldn't help it. Sherlock hummed around him, his voice setting off vibrations, encouraging him. And then Greg went feral for a second. His tangled both his hands in Sherlock's silky curls and held his head while he fucked his mouth. Sherlock moaned around him while Greg thrust once, twice and suddenly came in his mouth with a bitten off yell. He pulsed and Sherlock sucked and licked and, oh God, swallowed all of it. Sherlock pulled off him with pop and nuzzled his face into Greg' thigh while he reached into his pants.

Sherlock's breath puffed unevenly over Greg's sweaty thigh while he pulled himself off. Greg's hands were still in his hair and he ran them through it, petting his scalp. It felt wonderful. Sherlock moaned. He closed his eyes and Greg saw his arm jerk faster, he couldn't see his cock from this angle. 

“Pull his hair a bit. He likes that,” John whispered breathlessly beside him. Greg had forgotten he was there. He breathed in sharply. John fisted his cock under the table quietly and efficiently while he watched Sherlock and Greg. Greg did what John suggested and tightened his grip on Sherlock's curls. 

“Sherlock, you're amazing. So good, so beautiful. Come. For us. Come now,” John whispered reverently. Sherlock closed his eyes and stilled, then Greg felt something wet and warm hit his naked leg and drip onto his foot. Sherlock buried his face in his thigh with a choked off sob.

~ John ~

When Greg released John's hand from his death grip, he didn't think twice about touching himself. Yes, he was way out of his comfort zone with this situation, but they looked so good together. He himself hadn't dared fuck Sherlock's mouth like that, but obviously he liked it. Greg holding his head like that, he could tell Sherlock loved every second of it. 

Sherlock always had to feel a little overwhelmed when having sex. It helped him to stop thinking. The moment he started to second-guess everything and retreat into himself was John's enemy, so he took care that Sherlock didn't get lost in his own head. Greg didn't know that, and yet he did everything right instinctively.

John was very aroused watching them and wanked himself under the kitchen table, not too much, he didn't want to miss any of it. When Greg came with a shout, he stilled and watched his muscles tense over his abdomen while he pumped his load into Sherlock's mouth. God, but he looked beautiful in the throes of orgasm. John would like to see that up close, maybe watch him come on his well-defined abs. 

Sherlock needed to come, so the minute he was done cleaning Greg with his tongue, he touched himself. Greg was still a bit out of it, trying to catch his breath, not reciprocating yet, probably due to shock. But Sherlock couldn't get off on his own. John knew that. He had to be taken care of. 

“Pull his hair a bit. He likes that,” he advised Greg. Greg complied instantly, and John could see Sherlock jerk back to the present moment. John knew he had no idea how perfectly debauched he looked while sucking off another man. How beautiful he looked now, flushed and almost whining with the need to get off. 

“Sherlock, you're amazing. So good, so beautiful.” Greg fisted his hair a bit tighter and John could see his tension rising. “Come. For us. Come now,” he ordered breathlessly, and Sherlock went very still while his orgasm shook through him. John grasped his cock, hard, and tossed off, breathing quietly through his nose.


	13. Chapter 13

~Greg~

“Well, if you didn't want to know about it, why did you ask me?” Greg heard Sherlock yelling when he trudged up the stairs. 

“Screw you, Mr Holmes!” he heard a female voice yell in reply, and a hysterical middle-aged woman with dark hair and a lot of jewellery rushed past him in the stairwell, nearly knocking him over in the process. 

“Whoa there,” Greg addressed Sherlock as he entered the flat. “Client not satisfied, I take it?”

Sherlock sulked in his chair, pristinely dressed in a black suit and a light blue shirt. The room was sparsely illuminated by the lamp behind him.

“Nope,” he popped the plosive emphatically. “But her husband sure is with his affair.”

“So what happened?” 

“I merely stated the facts about their relationship. She took offence for some reason.” 

Greg shook his head. “I can imagine how that went.”

Sherlock crossed his legs and shifted in his chair. “It's just been so dull lately I'm taking cases I wouldn't even consider normally.” 

“I brought you something.” Greg smiled as Sherlock perked up.

“Oh, finally!” Sherlock held out his hand demandingly. 

Greg dug around in his messenger bag for the case file. 

“I'd appreciate it if you'd take a look. I'll get to it eventually but my workload is killing me right now.” 

“I'm sure we can think of some form of stress relief later.” Sherlock winked at him. 

Greg was flabbergasted. If he didn't know better he would think that Sherlock was actually flirting with him. 

They hadn't addressed last night's occurrence at all. Greg had just left for work in the morning when nobody else was up yet. Thinking about last night, Greg blushed instantly. Sherlock... his mouth... oh God. Greg averted his eyes and focused on handing the consulting detective the file. 

“Ahh,” Sherlock sighed as he sank back in his chair with the sort of blissful satisfaction usually reserved for bubble baths or down pillows and leafed through the file luxuriously. His eyes flicked over the pages. Greg was just hanging up his coat when John came down the stairs, carrying a stack of books. 

“Hi there,” he smiled at Greg. 

“Hey,” he replied, rather awkwardly.

“How was work?”

“Swamped. We can barely process anything right now, Dimmock is on sick leave and... I can hardly catch my breath.” 

“Sorry to hear that. Can we help with anything? Is this the murder-suicide thing near the Tate?” John inquired, indicating the file. 

“Double murder,” Sherlock corrected.

“Yes,” Greg said. 

“So how is that going? Tea?” 

“That would be lovely, thank you. Do you want the full rundown?” Greg followed John into the kitchen. The kitchen. With the table. Where Greg had sat last night, holding John's hand while whimpering under Sherlock's tongue... 

He started going over the case to distract himself and not be embarrassed.

“OK, here is what we figured out so far. The victims were married, Marita and Arthur Carson. Arthur Carson worked in finance. There are two children from his previous marriage, Roderick and Serena. I talked to Roderick; he's Arthur's partner in the firm, and he will take over the family business now that his father is dead. At first he couldn't provide an alibi, but then Sally gathered that he was just partying with his friends at an underground rave and didn't want to disclose the location.” 

“Wrong,” Sherlock interjected, now sitting on the floor while happily spreading out sheets around him.

“Oh?” 

“He was doing coke at a gay club and he had nobody to corroborate that for him because he is deeply closeted to his friends,” Sherlock uttered in a rush. 

“Really?” Greg gratefully accepted the hot cup of tea from John. 

John sat down in his chair and Greg, in a moment of bravery, settled into Sherlock's, since he wasn't using it.

“Do you mind explaining that?” Greg inquired. 

~Sherlock~

“He had a distinctive stamp on his right h-” 

Sherlock stuttered to a halt before he could reveal something stupid. 

He'd noted the young man's runny nose and the dark circles under his eyes, but no other symptoms of a cold. His father had just died, but Roderick didn't appear to mourn him terribly, so crying was out – his eyes were not irritated, either. So he had recently been deprived of sleep. 

The faded but distinctive five-pointed star matched perfectly with a sleepless night. Sherlock had remembered it was issued to patrons of the OXXO club, which he also knew were partial to doing lines – hence the runny nose. If Rory kept snorting regularly, he would get a nice nosebleed to go with that. 

It almost physically hurt Sherlock not being able to share his deductions with an appreciative audience, but Greg couldn't know about his access to the video feed or he'd surely feel obligated to do something about it. Or worse, Mycroft would find out and he wasn't looking forward to that conversation. Or any conversation with his vexatious brother at all, for that matter. 

“Never mind,” he chirped instead. 

“But you didn't even see him and we have no photos in the file...” Greg trailed off suggestively. 

“Sherlock?” John asked.

He needed something to distract them. Having access to the Yard this way was just too convenient to give it up with such a thoughtless blunder. Although not being able to show John and Greg why he came to that conclusion upset him. 

Sherlock sat up on his knees and turned over to Greg and John. 

“I really enjoyed last night,” he purred, pitching his voice to a lower register which he knew pushed several buttons in Greg's brain. He let his gaze drop to Greg's crotch unabashedly. He had a clear view of Greg's Adam's apple bobbing as he visibly swallowed. 

“Yeah, me too...” Greg replied valiantly. He was just too delightful when caught slightly off balance. 

“Maybe we can explore that more later?” Sherlock suggested seductively.

“You manipulative bastard,” John chuckled. 

“Look, I said never mind.” Sherlock snapped. “Pray continue with your summary, Detective Inspector.” He turned around to view the file again, concentrating on details.

There was a slight pause before Greg cleared his throat and continued. 

“Yeah, well, so him having an alibi – whatever that might be – is good for him, because Roderick inherits the firm. And there's a shitload of money involved. So that might be a motive. Also, I sensed a lot of antipathy to his 'stepmother' Marita. Today I talked to his sister, Serena. She was at home with her boyfriend at the time. She really hates Marita's guts.” Greg sipped his tea. 

“But she confirmed something Rory said the first time around: that Marita had an affair with another man. His name is Christopher White and he is head of a foundation Marita was involved with. Apparently he and Marita spent a lot of time together, since they've been working on fundraising events for the foundation together. The reception they attended at the Tate where we found them is also linked to the foundation; lots of representatives there. White was giving the opening speech for a new exhibition. He's on our list of suspects to check out next, but I haven't been able to make an appointment with him and since he's not family...” Greg paused and took another sip of tea. 

“So the son, Roderick, gets his father's position in the company? And money to boot?” John wanted to know.

“Yes,” Greg confirmed. 

“Well, that sounds like motive to me.”

“It had to be someone not intimately acquainted with the family,” Sherlock commented. “The murderer got it wrong. His children had to have known he was left-handed. If either of them had staged it, they would have considered that.” 

Sherlock recalled what he had observed at the crime scene on Hopton Street. The man had been shot in the right temple, the gun was in his right hand, though the nicotine stains on his left hand and the placement of his items indicated that he was left-handed. They had been 80 pounds of cash in his coat pocket. 

The woman had worn a pearl necklace with matching earrings and was shot at close distance. Sherlock remembered the leaflet announcing a fundraising event, hosted by the Apollo Foundation. It had been in her purse, which didn't contain any money. Where was the money? It had to have gone somewhere. If it was a robbery after all, which he could not rule out at this point, the perpetrator would have taken more, he – or she – would never have left Marita's pearl necklace behind if he or she was looking to score. 

But Sherlock didn't know where to place that bit of information yet. He made a mental note to acquire more data regarding that tomorrow. At this stage Sherlock was almost entirely sure that neither Roderick nor his sister had committed the crime. But they hadn't talked about the most obvious piece of evidence yet. 

“Have you had the gun in the lab already?” 

“It's being processed.” 

“'It's being processed',” Sherlock mocked, imitating Greg's jaded tone. “How are you going to solve anything if you're not looking at the weapon? Have you checked for powder burns?” 

He flipped over a page angrily. There was no analysis for that; the autopsy had been cursory at best. 

“Check both their hands.” A horrifying idea occurred to him. “Dear Lord, I hope it's not Anderson.”

“I'll tell you when we know more,” Greg replied curtly. 

“Hurry up.” 

“So do you want us to check out this White person?” John asked.

“If you can. I have no appointments or warrants yet. I'd like to know if we'd be wasting our time investigating that angle at all.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. 

“It's not like there's anything on right now,” John stated. “Except scaring off perfectly nice clients.”

Sherlock could feel John's reprimanding gaze boring into his back. 

He pouted, shut the file and stole John's tea from the side-table since he didn't make him a cup. At first John made as if to say something, but then relented and just shrugged, accepting his fate. 

Greg smirked. 

“Do you want some pasta?” John suggested to Greg.

“We already had some left-overs, but we didn't know when you'd come home, so ...” 

“That'd be great. No, no, don't get up, I'll get it.” 

~Greg~

By the time Greg had regained his equilibrium and a full stomach, John and Sherlock had migrated to the sofa. Sherlock was lying spread out over its whole length, while John was sitting in the right corner with Sherlock's feet on his lap. When Greg emerged from the kitchen, he felt slightly awkward for a moment because he didn't know where to sit. The small chair right next to the sofa seemed like a viable option, but it was cluttered with stacks of magazines. 

“If you want, we could... do something together,” John suggested. Then his face contorted into something that could have been an awkward wince or a suppressed laugh at his own corny line. “Oh, bollocks, I'm no good at this,” he finally cracked up. Despite everything, Greg had to giggle. John's laugh was infectious. 

“Sure,” he answered. “What did you have in mind?” 

“I perceived yesterday's... events to be quite satisfactory on all ends,” Sherlock enunciated while wiggling his socked feet on John's lap. “We would appreciate some instructions.”


	14. Chapter 14

“So what do you want me to do exactly?” Greg asked, slightly out of breath. 

John blushed beautifully. “Well, I think we'll just do what we normally do and when we... get to that point you can direct us and show us how to do it right.”

“That is awfully unspecific.” Sherlock remarked. “I suggest you demonstrate your fingering technique on me, what you called 'prep'. I looked it up and I'd be particularly interested to learn about prostate stimulation.” 

How could he just lounge there and look like he just fell out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine and talk dirty like that? It sounded like he was distanced, but Sherlock had that excited gleam he sometimes got in his eyes when he had a particularly difficult enigma to unravel. 

Greg felt a surge of blood to his cock when he imagined his fingers up Sherlock's arse. The seemingly pristine figure lying on the couch just told him explicitly he wanted Greg to finger him. Greg looked to John for reassurance. John's ears were still a little pink with embarrassment, but he smiled at him shyly. 

“OK, I'll do that.” 

”We trust you, Greg,” John said encouragingly. He stroked Sherlock's thigh. “Don't we, love.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Now, come here,” he demanded. 

He sat up, pulled on John's neck and crushed their lips together. John made a surprised sound and shoved helplessly at Sherlock's shoulders. 

“Hey, slow down a little,” he gasped when he came up for air. “It's not a contest,” he told Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye. “Or is it?” John looked to Greg for help and smiled at him lopsidedly. 

Greg thought he was going to faint. 

“No, it's not. Take your time,” he answered, a little shaky. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mock-exasperated. John cupped his long, white neck in his strong hands and just looked into Sherlock's iridescent eyes. Those hands. Greg would love to be touched by John. His hands seemed so capable. They had killed and healed, they handled guns as expertly as bandages, as Greg had witnessed recently. But he had yet to see what they could do to please a lover. 

For minutes, he just held Sherlock there, communicating with his eyes and his soft caresses how much he cherished him. Sherlock let John hold him and Greg could see him relax, like a tight string slowly unwound. Then John closed his eyes and kissed Sherlock sweetly. All his affection poured into that touch of lips, and Greg watched Sherlock melt into John. Sherlock tilted his head and welcomed John's lips on his. John kept kissing him like that, stroking his neck and shoulders, soft and sweet. 

Greg found he had held his breath for far too long and exhaled, shuddering. He told himself to get a grip on himself and breathe. 

Then Sherlock got playful and nipped at John's bottom lip, to which he responded with a smile and a bit of tongue. Sherlock clutched John's t-shirt and their kiss deepened. Sherlock welcomed John's tongue into his mouth and sucked on it. Greg noted that Sherlock's perfect cheekbones were sporting little rosy patches and his breathing had quickened. 

God, he was responsive. 

As their kiss intensified, they inched closer to each other. Sherlock pulled John's shirt up a little so he could caress his back. Greg had never seen John naked but he began to get an idea how fit he was, that bit of exposed back he could see from his position in the chair looked quite muscular and sported two distinct dimples. He was distracted from ogling John when Sherlock moaned. It was baritone, loud and utterly indecent. 

The sound made lust surge through Greg's abdomen and his cock. Greg looked up to see that John had now moved on to Sherlock's neck. He pressed open-mouthed sloppy kisses just below his jaw, and Sherlock had his head thrown back against the sofa to grant him better access. 

Greg was now fully hard and had to shift awkwardly in his pants to accommodate his erection. He winced a little when he touched his cock briefly, longing to linger and take himself in hand. But this was not about him. Briefly distracted, he looked at the detective and the doctor again just in time to see John undo the last of Sherlock's buttons on his ridiculously expensive blue shirt. It now hung open to reveal the lean pale torso Greg had glimpsed beneath his robe before. He let his eyes roam over it greedily – at least the parts not covered by John, who was still moving his mouth where it pleased him and where it elicited the most beautiful sounds from Sherlock. 

Sherlock was now sprawled back against the cushions with his legs spread a little bit more than could be called decent, and John was half draped over him. Greg could get a good look at Sherlock's very obvious erection and John's luscious ass. John got back to kissing Sherlock's neck (and who could blame him for the obsession if he had one), this time lavishing his attention on the other side. John was slightly out of breath now. 

Sherlock had his eyes closed, but now opened them and looked directly at Greg. Desire clouded his gaze, which was usually so analytical and cold, and Greg almost couldn't bear to return it. It must be so clear to Sherlock how turned on he was just by watching them make out. But Greg held his gaze, and let himself be scrutinized. He had nothing to hide from Sherlock. He already knew Greg wanted both of them, so modesty be damned. 

Sherlock raised one corner of his mouth in the tiniest smirk, and then, while still looking at Greg, angled himself so that he could push his tongue into John's ear. John startled at the unexpected intrusion and just gasped into Sherlock's neck while he licked at the sensitive tissue. Sherlock rutted his erection against John's thigh and - 

Bloody hell. This was the same move Sherlock had put on Greg once. In the stairwell when Greg tried to get him into his bed years ago, but not like that. Greg had masturbated a lot while thinking about where this encounter could have gone, in a different universe where he didn't give a shit about consent. Would they have wanked each other off right there in the hallway? Would they have rubbed against each others' thighs just like John and Sherlock did now, until they came in their pants, gasping into each others' mouths? Sherlock remembered. He hadn't forgotten and he was letting Greg know that.

Greg's breath was audible now, almost gasping himself, his eyes glued to the couple. He chided himself for being a creep. Sherlock now whispered something in John's ear and then gave his ear shell a last long lick. John crawled off him and stood up to take off his t-shirt and trousers. Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt and leaned back against the cushions, legs spread. Greg didn't know where to look first. 

John's brawny back and his tight round arse cheeks hugged by tight grey pants were certainly worth several looks. Apparently, he still retained his training routines, but he had gone a little soft around the middle. This made him look a little less intimidating but no less beautiful. Why he was prone to hide under those unflattering jumpers Greg would never understand. There was nothing to hide John now – his grey, snug pants were doing nothing to conceal his thick, engorged cock. 

Sherlock still lounged on the sofa like a Pasha, sporting a similar hard-on, as if waiting for his favourite courtesan to do all the work. John knelt before him and kissed his belly. Sherlock had less bulk than John, but there wasn't a gram of superfluous fat on him and his milk white skin stretched taught over copious muscles and veins. 

“God, you're beautiful,” John murmured against Sherlock's thigh. 

Greg wholeheartedly agreed. 

John fumbled with Sherlock's zipper and pulled it open slowly. Greg scooted forward so he could see past John's head. Sherlock raised his arse up from the couch so John could pull down his bespoke trousers to his ankles. Accommodating Greg, Sherlock shifted while lowering himself back on the couch so Greg could see the outlines of his stiff cock through his pants. 

John was on his knees in front of Sherlock and now bent himself over him. His delicious arse stuck out behind him, the grey fabric stretching over compact cheeks. Greg longed to squeeze them and feel firm muscle spring back at him. Maybe John would want to be fucked by Sherlock, even if it didn't work out last time. Maybe one day, he'd want a fat cock shoved up that arse. 

Greg's mouth had gone dry and he licked his lips while thinking about what a sight John would be like that. He noticed that his fingers were clenched into the armchair cushions and made deep impressions in the leather. He twisted them together in his lap instead, grazing his denied dick. 

Sherlock was wearing black silk pants, of course, which suited him and looked almost pornographic in this context. John nuzzled Sherlock's erection with his nose and then pressed his mouth unto the expensive fabric and kissed the wet patch that had formed at the tip. Sherlock whimpered as John licked his erection through the silk and proceeded to smear saliva all over it. He thrust his hips up helplessly and grasped John's hair. 

“No,” John lifted his head minutely and stopped. “We talked about this. I'll take my time. You need to learn to be patient, Mr Hurricane.”

Greg didn't have to think twice about how Sherlock would have acquired that nickname. 

“He needs to learn to be patient, right, Greg?”

John turned around a bit, searching for eye contact. He looked absolutely gorgeous, arse high up in the air, lips reddened from kissing and mouthing Sherlock's cock, glistening with saliva. Greg felt a pulse of precum moistening his pants. Jesus Christ. 

“Erm...” He seemed to have lost his voice. “Right.” 

“See, the sex expert agrees,” John told Sherlock. “Besides, I love those pants on you.”

He then proceeded to French kiss his cock through Sherlock's pants. When he let up torturing Sherlock several minutes later, the pants were drenched obscenely. Also, Sherlock was panting like he'd just run a marathon and his mouth stood open slightly. John had slowly reduced him to a writhing, wet mess. He kept stroking Sherlock's thighs and belly and admired his work. Greg's eyes roamed over this debauched sight, over and over, lingering on Sherlock's vulnerable, ecstatic face, his flushed cheeks and chest, his puckered nipples, his toned arms gripping the couch, his visibly throbbing cock. 

John slowly peeled away his pants and just admired the sight for minute, and so did Greg. Sherlock's cock was magnificent, long and straight. Shiny precum leaked out at the tip and the foreskin was already fully retracted. His balls sat underneath it in a nest of dark hair, drawn up high. John sucked just the tip into his mouth and Sherlock cried out. 

Greg finally gave up. He simply had to touch himself, his cock was aching so badly, throbbing in sympathy with Sherlock getting a long, torturous blow job. God, he could only imagine how splendid John's lips would feel around his cock. He still had a pretty good idea what Sherlock's mouth had felt like on him. Greg rubbed himself through his pants, quickly and quietly, just a little bit, to get the pressure off. His cock was swimming in precum that had soaked through his trousers. He felt a soggy patch, but he didn't care right now. Fuck, but that felt good. He watched John working his tongue around Sherlock and bobbing his head up and down, sucking and making sloppy wet sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!


	15. Chapter 15

Greg saw that John had a little trouble keeping Sherlock steady. He moved around a lot and he didn't want to take Sherlock's whole length – or maybe he didn't know how? As much as Sherlock seemed to enjoy this, it looked a bit awkward for John.

“You... you could try holding him steady with your hand. It's easier like that.” Greg suggested, his voice quivering embarrassingly. 

John didn't stop what he was doing to acknowledge Greg, but his right hand grasped Sherlock's shaft tightly. 

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned, as John proceeded to suck him enthusiastically. 

“John, I'm – I can't – ” Sherlock whined.

John pulled off and wiped his mouth and chin. 

“Well, we can't have that yet,” he said breathlessly. Sherlock slumped back against the pillow, head turned to the side, exposing his long neck. His cock jutted out obscenely from his groin. 

“Yeah, so I think I put him in the mood all right,” John said to Greg and sat down beside Sherlock again. 

“What's next?” 

Greg tried to hide his predicament by crossing his legs awkwardly. He had to reboot his system for a minute to have a clear thought. 

Right. Fingers. Up asses. Oh God. 

“Do you have any lube down here?” He loathed the idea to go up to John's room to get the bottle he had ordered online. He didn't want to miss a second of this. 

– “Kitchen.”   
– “Bedroom.” Sherlock and John said simultaneously and then looked at each other, surprised. 

“So you got some as well,” John remarked.

“Naturally,” Sherlock replied. 

“Could you get it?” John asked Greg. “I don't think I can walk right now,” John laughed, and pointed at his groin. Sherlock curled up against him like a cat. 

“Sure.” Greg got up awkwardly, angling his hips away from John. Sherlock had his eyes closed and rubbed his groin against his boyfriend. 

Greg quickly evaluated the options and decided to look into the kitchen first. Kind of an unusual place to keep lube, but with Sherlock you never knew what exactly you might discover hidden in those ominous drawers. 

“Top left cabinet,” Sherlock yelled. 

Greg opened the indicated cabinet and was a bit nonplussed. About twenty tiny sample bottles of different brands of lube stood to attention, arranged in perfect rows. Greg was overwhelmed with making a choice at the moment so he just took one that seemed normal and unthreatening to him. Smelling it and finding nothing offensive, he turned around and walked back to the living room. 

His erection had by now subsided to an almost tolerable level. That didn't last long when he saw what was going on the couch now. Sherlock was lying on top of John, who had his legs spread out under him. It looked like they were fucking, except they were only rubbing their cocks together. They were both sweaty and enthusiastically vocal. Sherlock looked up when Greg entered the room. Blood rushed back into his cock painfully and he was just standing there, uncovered, clutching the lube with one white-knuckled hand. 

Sherlock's eyes darted to his cock and back, licking his lips. 

“What took you so long? Come here.” He held out his hand demandingly. 

“Sherlock,” John nudged him with his thigh. “Be nice. Sorry,” he smiled apologetically at Greg, looking flushed and lovely. “We got a bit carried away.” 

Sherlock still held out his hand. 

“Put some lube on this,” he commanded, “I need to – ” he gestured down at their joined groins. 

Greg moved toward them, slowly, clicked the bottle open and poured a good amount of lube into Sherlock's palm with a shaky hand. He was now standing so close to them he could actually smell their arousal. It was a heady cocktail of Sherlock's expensive shampoo and musky male body fluids. Sherlock smeared his lubed palm all over his and John's cocks. John gasp at the sudden touch of cold, wet fluid. 

“It's polite to warm that up a bit first,” Greg advised after he had winced in sympathy.

“Thank you for your input,” Sherlock bit out between clenched teeth while he squeezed.

“What are you waiting for? I thought you'd finger me.” 

Greg just stared at him while his knees threatened to give out and his ears turned bright red. Sherlock looked immensely pleased for some reason. Yes, he could turn off Greg's brain like that. 

“Now, if it's convenient,” he drawled. 

Then he groaned as he gave John's and his own cocks a pull. 

“All right,” was all Greg managed to say. He knelt down next to the sofa and rolled up his sleeves. Then he poured some lube into his palm and coated the first and middle finger of his right hand with it, spreading it, giving it time to warm up. Then he scooted closer to John and Sherlock. His new angle gave him a close-up of Sherlock's lush arse moving between John's thighs. God, what a sight. His arse cheeks look like the only place where Sherlock's body would allow itself to store some extraneous fat. They were round and perfect. His arse looked absolutely fuckable like this, moving slowly. 

“Greg,” Sherlock snapped. 

Right. 

For a moment he had forgotten what a bitchy sod this gorgeous arse was attached to. So Sherlock wanted his fingers up his ass? He was going to get them. But first, Greg had to touch it. Courageously, he squeezed Sherlock's arse cheeks and marvelled at the perfect texture. It felt even better than he had imagined. Yes. If Sherlock didn't like it, he could complain. He was now massaging Sherlock and spread his cheeks a little wider each time he made a circle. Soon, he spotted his pink tight hole above his balls. 

Greg held one cheek with his left hand and began massaging Sherlock's perineum with his lubed fingers, spreading the lube up to his ass crack. He had hardly any hair there and it felt amazing. Sherlock was wanking John and himself slowly and leisurely and Johns little cries and curses accompanied the slight movement. Greg then started to circle Sherlock's virgin hole with his fingers. He rubbed lube all over it and then paused.

“Ready?” he inquired. 

“Of course,” Sherlock panted. 

Greg pushed his middle finger in to the first knuckle. 

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed, and Greg felt his muscles flutter and clench. 

“It's OK, don't fight it. Try to relax back there.” He kept his finger inside Sherlock and petted his ass cheek unconsciously to calm him. 

“Does is hurt?” 

“No,” Sherlock said. “It's just...” 

“It felt weird to me, too,” John added helpfully, now hugging Sherlock to him and stroking his back soothingly. “But at least Greg knows what he's doing.” 

John craned his neck to see what Sherlock looked like with a finger up his ass. But the angle didn't allow it, so he settled on watching Greg's face. Greg tried not to feel self-conscious about that. John hummed and pulled Sherlock's head against his shoulder.

“Relax.” 

Greg waited until Sherlock was snuggled into John's neck and relaxed his breathing a bit. The fluttering gradually died down as Sherlock stretched around him. 

“Yeah, that's it”, Greg murmured. 

Until now he had been too distracted by Sherlock's fussing to notice how amazing Sherlock felt around him, hot and tight. He moved his finger minutely and Sherlock gasped, clenching down on him again. 

“John, distract Sherlock a bit, will you.” 

“I think I can manage that” John smiled. “Hey, love.” 

He kissed Sherlock's cheek again with that aching tenderness he had displayed in their first kiss. Sherlock relaxed after a few minutes of John's caresses and Greg swirled his finger around in the tiniest circles. Then, when Sherlock started moaning into John's mouth, obviously distracted by his lover's skilful tongue, Greg pressed his middle finger in up to the second knuckle. This time, the clenching was not so intense; Sherlock had accommodated to him. 

Then Greg started moving, and soon he was gently fucking Sherlock's hole. He took his hand off Sherlock's ass for a second to add a few more drops of lube, which he expertly poured on top of his finger so it would trickle down into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock was now moving with him a little, anticipating each fingerfuck and slowly Greg worked his finger all the way in. He seemed to like this. 

How long would it take for Sherlock to ask for a cock up his arse? Greg would have liked nothing more right now than to stretch Sherlock wide open with his fingers and to insert his own aching, wet prick into his tight arsehole and fuck him to orgasm, while he was slammed into John beneath him and they made him come all over himself, too... Fuck. Greg gripped his cock briefly and brutally, then concentrated on the task at hand again. 

“Can you take another?” he asked Sherlock intently. 

Sherlock nodded. His eyes were screwed shut. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Greg pulled his finger out and massaged Sherlock's cheeks for a bit while he inspected his moist hole. Then he held two fingers against him and slowly breached him again. 

Sherlock whimpered into John's shoulder. This time Greg didn't stop until he was all the way in, letting Sherlock stretch around him. John continued kissing him and moved his hands down his back until he was cupping his arse cheeks, holding them apart. Part of his hand covered Greg's fingers still squeezing Sherlock, and when he encountered him John didn't let him go. John urged Sherlock to move against him, to rut his slippery cock against his. 

“Okay?” Greg asked. 

“Mhmm,” Sherlock didn't break the kiss to answer. 

John suggested heavily: “Just imagine I'll be fucking you like that one day.” 

The thought made Greg's cock twitch against the damp fabric. Never mind. Greg had a job to do. He started fucking Sherlock with his fingers again. He had widened nicely. 

“Good. That's the minimum preparation you should do. Three are better. But we'll not do that today. You wanted to know about this, though.” 

Then Greg curled his fingers inside Sherlock and searched for that tender knob inside. When he had found it, he scraped it very slightly. Sherlock twitched and babbled incoherently. 

“Sorry. It's better to just skirt around the edges. I'll show you. Like this...” 

And he started fucking Sherlock with his fingers again, only this time he touched his prostate just a bit, on the side. Sherlock just lay in John's arms and rode the sensation. John still held his ass, kneading, and Greg estimated by Sherlock's erratic thrusts against John that he was going to orgasm soon. Greg fucked him as deeply as he could with his fingers. 

Fuck, his arse could probably take his cock now. And he would like it, too. 

When Sherlock came with a long, guttural moan, he contracted and fluttered around Greg's fingers. Imagining it was his cock, Greg clenched his thigh muscles and thrust against thin air only once while he came untouched. Greg felt hot semen spurt in to his pants and clenched his teeth. Sherlock ejaculated on John's belly with a groan. John held his shuddering lover, murmuring meaningless soothing words into his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year and happy season 4!


	16. Chapter 16

Greg carefully extricated his fingers when Sherlock had calmed down and stood on unsteady legs. He watched John stroke Sherlock's hair while his breath slowly evened out. All of a sudden Greg felt awkward gazing down fondly at the pair entwined on the couch. The heat of the moment was gone and Greg felt strangely left out. He didn't know how to behave or what to say. He couldn't bear it. 

Greg fled to John's room. Since when had he come in his pants like a teenager? And without touching, even? Hell, but that was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Sherlock was...incredible. Greg wadded some tissues to clean himself up and changed his pants and trousers. Would his sudden escape be perceived as too weird? The two probably needed a moment to themselves now. 

He sat down on John's bed for a minute and tried to catch his breath. Should he go downstairs again and check on them? Greg felt extremely self-conscious about what had just happened. If he went down to them now, he would feel like an intruder. Even if he had defined his role in this scenario specifically as a helping hand, so to speak, post-coital behavior had not been discussed. It wasn't as if he needed a cuddle or something, but still, he felt unhinged. 

Once the post-orgasmic haze had faded, the urge to smoke became unbearable. Greg searched for a lighter and went to John's window. He just needed a moment to himself. And nicotine. Leaning out of the window, he lit up. Greg inhaled the acrid smoke deeply and gratefully and stared up at the tiny bit of orange-tinted London sky he could glimpse. He was shaking. He needed something, he just couldn't name it. Hell, he'd just stay here for a minute and then think about what could be done about this situation. 

He heard the door open quietly. His head shot around. It was Sherlock, wearing his trousers and the light blue shirt, but he hadn't bothered to do up the buttons. Again, Greg felt a small twist in his chest at how stunning his friend really was, and how carelessly he displayed it. Greg thrust his arm further out of the window to keep the smoke out of John's room and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock just sidled up to him and crowded into his space to reach for the cigarette. Without bothering to lean out of the window, he greedily inhaled half of what was left of it and tilted his head back, exhaling. Greg was speechless. 

After Sherlock had taken another drag, he held the cigarette casually in his left hand. Without a word, Without a word, Sherlock stared at Greg, his pale gaze penetrating the other man intensely. It should have been uncomfortable and unnerving, but Greg was getting lost in his eyes. Suddenly Sherlock leaned into his space and kissed him. On the mouth. He could smell smoke when Sherlock's dry, warm lips touched his. Too startled to react, Greg tensed up. Sherlock let his tongue slide over Greg's bottom lip and licked into his mouth, unhurried. Greg took a shuddering breath and responded, caressing Sherlock's tongue with his own. The kiss was slow, wet and intimate. It was like an answer to all of Greg's unvoiced questions and calmed him. He felt the knot in his chest loosen. 

With an audible pop, Sherlock removed his lips from Greg's. 

“We sort of skipped that part,” he murmured. 

Then he finished Greg's cigarette, threw it out of the window and left the room as quietly as he had entered. Greg felt tears gathering in his eyes, although he couldn't have pointed out the reason why. He lay down on the bed and curled up on himself. Exhaustion took over and mercifully, the racing thoughts in his head were soon extinguished by deep sleep. 

… 

The next day, Sherlock went out to the South Bank. Spring was a long way off yet. A grey sky loomed over the Thames, promising rain. At least the icy wind which had whipped London into submission during the past days had abated. Sherlock strolled along the shore, looking for someone in particular. It felt good to stretch his legs, he'd been cooped up in the flat for too long. While he was keeping an eye out, his thoughts started to wander. 

Last night had been a peculiar experience. After Greg had left the room, John had been worried about him. Clearly, the Detective Inspector had felt unwell despite his rather spectacular performance. John had wanted to go after him but Sherlock had volunteered. 

When he saw Greg, he sensed his friend's need for space. But at the same time Greg had not wanted space and seemed desperate for something, a connection Sherlock couldn't name. What a paradox. Sherlock was constantly amazed the complexity of human interaction. So Sherlock had tried to give him both at same time, intimacy and distance. Hopefully, that had been the right combination. Hopefully, he hadn't scared Greg off for some reason. 

Sherlock wanted Greg to be in his life. He wanted his presence of mind, limited though it was compared to his own. His reliable and benevolent manner put Sherlock at an ease that he felt around very few people. When Greg had rejected him all those years ago he'd simply put it down to the usual irritation most people felt around him. He'd swallowed his feelings like he was used to. But as time progressed, Sherlock noted the little give-aways constantly. 

Greg was genuinely interested in him, but not only in the paternal role he seemed to have assigned himself in the tableau of Sherlock's life. Sherlock noticed the way Greg forced his eyes away every time he thought Sherlock had caught him looking. Convincing Greg to help him and John hadn't taken much effort. He couldn't imagine placing that kind of trust in anybody else. 

He had wanted more than their tentative friendship from Greg for a long time, although he didn't really know what exactly "more" was. Initially, they had tolerated each others' company, which was more than Sherlock could say for a lot of other people. Then, even before John, Greg had become his first admirer. He wasn't as liberal or verbose with his praise as John, but his respect for Sherlock had grown implicitly the longer they knew each other. 

There was no doubt that Greg would go through fire and water for Sherlock. Actually, he had already rescued him from an old barn ablaze in flames and fished him out of the Thames (two times), so that was literally true. Their conversations usually revolved around cases and, on good days they bickered and teased each other with their inadequacies. But Greg had been unavailable, and that was the end of the matter. 

But now Greg was hurting. He had seen it last night. Was it that he missed his wife? Was it something Sherlock had done? Was it something about John? People were so frustrating. Even the select few he cared about Sherlock couldn't figure out. He could tell that Greg had come untouched just from pleasuring him. A pleasant tingling chased down his chest and abdomen at recalling that information. He could also see what Greg had had for lunch at the office (hot dog, mustard, coffee), he could tell the DI had been walking around in Brixton at some point in during the day, he knew where he had stopped to buy more cigarettes. But last night, there had been such a complex mixture of emotions on Greg's face that Sherlock had come up with a complete blank when trying to read him. All the other information about his friend that readily popped up in his overactive brain was useless in that regard. He'd have to ask John. 

When he approached Waterloo bridge, he slowed his steps and forced his mind off the topic. The second-hand book dealers had set up their stalls, and tourists and students were milling about. Kirsten was sitting at her usual spot, curled up in a sleeping bag. The green colouring in her bleached dreadlocks was fading. The last time he'd seen her the colour had still been vivid. She was blowing into her fingers to keep them warm. Her dog Bailey lay across her feet, twitching an ear and lifting his head up slightly when Sherlock approached her. 

“Spare change, sir?” she winked at him. 

“Yes, in fact,” Sherlock replied, and dug around in his pocket. He gave her 100 pounds wrapped around a note he had written earlier. 

“The usual, I take it.” 

“Preferably.” 

“Right, it's for my doggie, not using it for drugs, swear on my mother's grave, sir.” 

Bailey looked up at Sherlock as if he'd heard and panted, his tongue lolling out. Sherlock crouched down. 

“You flea-infested mongrel.” Sherlock ruffled the dog's head affectionately and scratched his ears. He missed his dog. Kirsten tucked the money into her coat. 

With an inexplicable pang in his chest, Sherlock got up and walked away. 

“Take care, then, thank you, sir,” Kirsten said. 

It started to rain after all. Sherlock got his phone out and texted Mycroft. He needed a favour.


	17. Chapter 17

~John~

“John!”

Sherlock thundered into 221b.

“What?” John jumped up from his arm chair, alarmed.

Sherlock strode up to him and seized his shoulders.

“Get dressed. We have an appointment this afternoon.” 

Sherlock beamed at him excitedly.

“But I am dressed,” protested John.

“Not for this.” He held John back a bit and gave him a once-over.

“Where are we going, then?”

“Somewhere fancy. Trust me, you won’t be comfortable in _those._ ” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose at John’s Carharts and trainers. 

John complied and stepped into the bedroom. He slipped into his best black trouser which hugged his arse quite nicely. After Sherlock, lounging on the bed fully dressed, had dismissed three of his best shirts as too pedestrian, John was slightly irritated. 

“No, that one is all wrong. You need to give the impression that we are filthy rich, John.”

“Well, I'm not. Deal with it. I don't have any clothes that scream money.”

Sherlock grunted and grudgingly accepted his first choice, a blue button-up that John knew brought out his eyes. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” John wanted to know as he buttoned up. 

“The foundation.”

“Which foundation?”

“The one our number one suspect in the Carson case presides over.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock gave him an enthusiastic smack on the lips before he ran out to get a cab. Apparently, he was in a good mood and the game was on. 

After the cab had dropped them off in Kensington, John entered the house behind Sherlock. Sherlock, as always, strode up right to the reception desk as if he belonged and made inquiries about their appointment. John was taken aback by the poshness. This was quite a bit more upscale than he was used to and he felt underdressed and a little uncomfortable. Now he was glad Sherlock had insisted on him changing his clothes first. 

~Sherlock~

The receptionist had red hair (dyed, eyebrows suggested a natural hair colour leaning toward middle brown, probably streaked with grey). She wore earrings (brass, cheap, gilded). Her fake smile revealed two fake teeth (too white, tea stains, scale on the others, could use a professional dental cleaning). Green plastic glasses with a beaded chain hung around her collar (myopia, old age). Functional make-up, too much rouge (shade didn't suit her skin tone). Perfume (Davidoff Cool Water, how mundane).

“Good day, gentlemen.” 

She didn't need to glance at a sheet or calendar; obviously she had been instructed to await their arrival. With the amount of money Mycroft had set aside, no wonder.

“Mr White will be right with you. Would you like to take a seat?” She indicated an area behind them. 

Her hands were scrubbed clean, but fine residual particles stuck to the cuticles and under the nails... what might those be? He couldn’t determine what the black dust consisted of without further inspection. What did she get up to? As he was leaning in to take a closer look his hand automatically shot to his pocket for his portable magnifying glass. But Sherlock stopped himself. For once. This wasn't important. He noticed minutiae all the time. Sure, it was good training, but Ms. M. Spencer (name plate well-kept, no smudges) was not his primary target here. 

Sherlock nodded and strode off to the seating area. He heard John thank her politely and took a seat next to him. 

“So, what exactly are we here for?” John wanted to know. 

“Not now, John,” he deflected him. He was busy taking in the room.

The décor would have been state of the art in the 80s, but Sherlock spotted subtle signs of decline. The carpet had seen far too many years and hadn't been cleaned properly in a while (faded colours, musty smell). The mahogany furniture was well-maintained but chipped in places. A selection of modern art styles (utterly inane, abstract) graced the walls. UV rays had damaged the passe-partouts over the years (significant tone of yellow). They had hung in the sun flooded room for decades and so had the wallpaper. 

The paintings were regularly exchanged, though. As a foundation that provided for up and coming artists they would have no shortage of new works of art, but the frames and everything else in the room had not been updated at all. The only other things in the room that seemed to be in good condition were the potted plants. They looked strapping and well-maintained. Someone must take care of them with great attention. A ficus would not develop such shiny leaves without diligence. Conclusion: Money troubles, keeping up appearances as best as possible.

~John~

The room was nice. He leaned back in the slightly creaky sofa, content to watch Sherlock’s eyes flit around the room. No point in bothering him now, he would tell him when he was ready. 

“Mr Holmes!”

An elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit emerged from the hall and moved toward Sherlock with intent. 

“I’m Christopher White. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically as he got up. 

“I’m so glad you could arrange to meet here on such short notice.” 

“Yes, quite fortunate,” Sherlock responded, playing along with the upbeat tone. 

“This is my colleague, Dr Watson.” Sherlock introduced him. Still pissed about that, then.

“Pleased to meet you,” John shook his hand politely, but he let Sherlock take the lead in this. 

“Welcome, Dr Watson, good to meet you.” 

White clasped him tightly with a slightly arthritic hand. 

“Shall we adjourn to my office? Surely, my assistant Megan would love to make us some tea.” He beamed back to his receptionist. 

“Right away, sir,” she replied with similar enthusiasm. 

John only wished the people he worked with at the clinic were always this friendly and enthusiastic about greeting patients. But then again, they weren’t giving the personnel any donations. 

White’s office was furnished in a similar style to the reception area. Again, John noticed Sherlock taking his sweet time about taking a seat, moving and looking around subtly and slowly. What was he seeing? John would have to wait for the narrative. For now, he just saw a white-haired friendly man in a suit who went out of his way to serve them the tea the receptionist brought in. 

They exchanged pleasantries and John could almost physically feel the tension radiating off his partner. Sherlock despised small talk more than anything, but if faced with the necessity, he could at least play at being nice. 

“Mr Holmes, I was delighted when your brother called. I won’t mince words, the Apollo foundation has seen better days. But as you know, our work has made such difference and will continue to do so in the future. We have provided a stepping stone for numerous young talents such as-“ 

He rattled off a list of artists’ names that meant absolutely nothing whatsoever to John (and probably not to Sherlock either, since he recalled him dismissively referring to a Picasso they had reclaimed from a notorious art thief as “those hideous doodles”). 

“Your generous donation will benefit everyone. You’ll be invited to exclusive previews as our patrons, and you’ll be able to talk to the artists and see the creative excellence you made possible. Maybe something catches your eye, yes? You’ll be able to purchase works of art before everyone else and enhance your collection.” 

He winked. 

John shuddered inwardly. Sherlock at a vernissage… that was bound to be catastrophic. Unless someone was murdered horribly to spice it up. 

“Who else is in on this?” Sherlock asked. “I read on your homepage that there was a vernissage at the Tate last Friday? Who attends?” 

“Other patrons. They’re a nice bunch, you’ll see. It’s always great fun. Afterwards we had a few drinks and danced until midnight.” 

His chin trembled. 

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock wanted to know, innocently.

“Of course, you heard about the tragedy? My dear friend Marita and her husband passed away that very evening. But of course that has nothing to do with our work.”

He forced his face into a brave smile. 

“Marita was involved in planning our fundraising dinner at the end of the month. We have discussed cancelling it, but I’m sure Marita wouldn’t have wanted that. She would have…” His voice faltered. “She would have wanted us to get on with it, you understand. Our work… her work was very important to her.” 

He extracted a handkerchief from his suit and dabbed at his rheumy eyes. 

“We’re sorry for your loss,” John interjected, when Sherlock just continued to stare at White, probably dissecting his every move with his mind. 

“Yes, terribly sorry,” Sherlock added in an off-handed manner. John kicked his shin under the table. 

“The event will still take place, in her memory,” White continued when he had collected himself. “We would be delighted to welcome you three gentlemen at the ballroom. It will be a great chance to get to know the other patrons. And you know, there will be a swing band,” he was back to smiling bravely again. “You’ll get your invitation in the mail soon. Will your brother be able to attend as well?”

“Probably not,” Sherlock replied distantly. “The government doesn’t run itself and all that.”

White laughed. 

“Well, I haven’t had the chance to speak to him directly, but please give him my warmest regards again.”

“I will.” 

“I do hope you will find great pleasure in our work. It’s so rewarding, you’ll see.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Is there anything you want to know, any questions you might have?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said. 

“Excellent. Now there is just the small matter of a signature. Your brother granted you authorization.” 

White slid over a check and another document. 

Sherlock scrawled his name in the appropriate places, embellishing the S. 

“Thank you. Megan will see the paper work through. I’m so glad you’re on board.”

“Yes, thanks,” Sherlock replied robotically. John could see his patience wearing thin. 

“I hope we’ll see each other at the gala soon?” 

“We’d love to. I have to check my calendar.” 

Something in Sherlock’s tone told John that he would not check his non-existent calendar and had already dismissed the event entirely. 

“Wonderful!” 

White got up as Sherlock got up. John joined them and stood, his knees cracking. He hadn’t quite understood what had happened, but he had had some excellent tea and Sherlock would tell him about his observations soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my faithful betas shaolingrrl and Elianara.


	18. Chapter 18

~Sherlock~

When they emerged from the building, the sky was already darkening. They huddled together in the rain which had not let up since this morning until a cab deigned to stop for them. As they settled into the comfortably warm interior, Sherlock texted Greg.

_Check White's alibi. Attended event, possible opportunity. SH_

John scooted closer to him.

“So, give me the run-down,” John addressed him. “He couldn't possibly have done it, right? He seems so... refined.” 

“His grief seemed genuine,” Sherlock admitted. “I don't think they were having an affair, though. He's quite impotent.” 

“Oh,” John said. 

Sherlock's phone vibrated.

_Thank you. Results for the gun are in._

_Bring it. When will you be home? SH_

Sherlock was shocked to find that he equally looked forward to the lab report and to seeing Greg. 

_Around seven, maybe. Want me to get take out?_

_Yes. SH_

_What would you like?_

“Greg wants to get take out on the way home. What are you in the mood for?” 

“That's great. Chinese, maybe?”

“The usual?” 

“Yes, please.” 

John sighed and leaned back in the seat, squirming uncomfortably. Sherlock knew this kind of weather was bad for his shoulder. 

_Beijing Palace 1 3 24 42 71 SH_

“We're out of milk, too,” John mumbled. 

_And milk. SH_

_You got it. See you later. :)_

_Don't ever use emoticons again or I will block your number. SH_

While texting with one thumb, he leaned over and pressed his other thumb directly into John's trapezius where he knew the pain led to stiff muscles. John tensed up, but then he exhaled and closed his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he smiled, keeping his eyes closed. 

“When we get home, we'll make a fire and draw a bath,” Sherlock declared. John complained about the cold seeping into his bones regularly. 

His screen lit up. 

_No, you won't. :p_

~John~ 

After a soothing bath, John felt much better. He'd got out of his fancy clothes and put on an old jumper and soft tracksuit bottoms. Kneeling down by the fireplace, he arranged some old newspapers and kindling. He lit the fire and just sat back on his heels to watch the flames lick over the dry wood. When he was sure the kindling was properly ablaze, he put two pieces of beech wood on it. John sat down in his chair and contemplated the warmth, relaxing while his hair dried. 

The bathroom door stood slightly ajar. Unfortunately, their tub was too small to accommodate them both, so they had to take turns. He heard Sherlock splashing and humming happily in the bath tub. John loved the sound of his voice. The volume rose gradually until Sherlock intoned in rich baritone:

In einem Bächlein helle,  
Da schoß in froher Eil  
Die launische Forelle  
Vorüber, wie ein Pfeil:  
Ich stand an dem Gestade  
Und sah in süßer Ruh  
Des muntern Fischleins Bade  
Im klaren Bächlein zu. [see notes for translation]

John was enchanted by the beautiful burbling melody. He went through the kitchen to lean in the door frame. Sherlock lay in the bathtub, boneless. His long pale limbs hung over the rim, dripping everywhere. When he noticed John's presence, he stopped singing. 

“What is this?” 

“Schubert.” 

“I didn't know you spoke German.”

“Deutsch ist Mist. Man kann es nirgendwo gebrauchen. Entweder verstehen einen die Leute nicht oder sie denken, man wär ein Nazi.” [see notes for translation]

“What?”

“Exactly.” 

“Well, I think it's beautiful. What does it mean?” 

“It's just a song about a fish, John.” 

“You can sing or read anything and I'll still think it beautiful.” 

Sherlock retracted his arms and knees. He ducked his head underwater and blew bubbles. 

John heard the door close through the noise. 

“Hey, where are you? I brought dinner,” he heard Greg call. 

~Sherlock~

Sherlock dried off and slipped into his burgundy bath robe in record time. Without a comment, he bounced to where Greg had dumped his messenger bag by the door. Digging around past two packs of cigarettes, keys, a portfolio containing the unsigned divorce papers (so Greg had been to see Tara, good) and an empty deodorant, he uncovered the lab report. Gleefully, he carried it over to the couch where he flounced himself over the whole length. Thankfully, a lab technician he wasn't familiar with had signed it, not his favourite forensic fuck-up.

“No fingerprints except Carson's,” he read out loud. “Traces of bitumen, nitrogen, phosphate, calcium, potassium... peat?” He trailed off and read on silently.

“Do you have any idea?” Greg wanted to know as he moved two cartons of milk into the fridge. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock made. 

“How did it go with White? You went to see him?”

“Oh, he's harmless. He certainly isn't up to any adultery. Have you questioned the attendees of that art thing yet?” 

“No.” 

“Figure out if he was there the whole time. He would have had ample opportunity. But I think it's unlikely.”

But why would he murder them in such dramatic way if he wasn't fucking her? This setting of the stage practically screamed attention. Also, Sherlock couldn't get over the missing money. The pieces didn't fit. 

Greg and John carried the cartons of Chinese food over to the couch table. After being nagged by John he sat up so they could squeeze in to either side of him. Suddenly, he was ravenous. He hadn't eaten since last night and the food smelled delicious. 

“Did you bring prawn crackers?” 

“No? Sorry, you didn't text that,” Greg answered as he took a seat beside him. 

“It's implied,” Sherlock complained. 

“How about saying thank you to Greg for getting us all dinner instead?” John suggested and elbowed him fondly with his good arm. 

“Thnkf,” Sherlock mumbled around a huge bite of crispy duck.

They tucked in. John put on the telly and soon comfortable silence was established except for content mastication and some moderator's upbeat chatter. After they had devoured several helpings each, John and Greg leaned back and put their feet up on the table. Sherlock stretched out on the couch again, putting his head in John's lap and his feet in Greg's. 

“Christ, I'm full,” yawned John and started doze a bit on the couch almost instantly. It was only half past eight. All this running around London today and the bath had left Sherlock in a pliable mood as well. He started to rearrange what he knew about the case in his head already. But was distracted by Greg gently kneading his feet. He hummed peacefully. That was nice. He rearranged himself so Greg could reach him better. John stirred awake and blinked owlishly at him. Sherlock lay on his back and displayed himself for their benefit. He basked in their attention and he was eager to make the most of this evening.

~Greg~ 

This was how Greg wanted to spend all his evenings. Full of savory Chinese food, content with the telly, and the bottom half of a scantily clad handsome man stretched out on top of him. When he didn't know what to do with his hands he started massaging Sherlock's feet. Even his feet were alluring, long and delicate like his hands. Sherlock seemed to be amenable and shifted from lying on his side to his back and pressed his feet into Greg. Greg chuckled and continued rubbing his calves. His legs were covered with a fine down, and Sherlock hummed as Greg stroked his muscles into relaxation. Sherlock wriggled in delight and his burgundy bathrobe parted as he spread his legs to grant Greg better access. 

Greg's breath hitched as his gaze wandered up Sherlock's thighs over his soft cock and his torso, still flushed from the hot bath. Greg couldn't take his eyes off him and he felt himself get hard under Sherlock's feet. He tried to rearrange himself on the sofa to make it not quite so obvious that one glance at Sherlock's body had such an embarrassing effect on him. But Sherlock wasn't fooled and chased after him, rubbing him through his cotton trousers with his right foot. Hell, but that felt exquisite. His cock sprang to full attention immediately. He hadn't been able stop thinking about Sherlock and John all day,and what they had and hadn't done yet. All day naughty ideas had sprung unbidden to his mind. But even in his wildest dreams he wouldn't have imagined Sherlock displayed in front of him like a piece of art.

“You little slut,” John said fondly. 

Sherlock leaned his head back and looked up at John innocently. John smiled down at Sherlock and carded his hands through his still damp hair. 

“You planned this,” John accused him. 

“I hoped we could try penetration tonight,” Sherlock suggested. He looked back at Greg.

Greg felt himself getting hotter and a little sweaty. He would love to take off his suit. 

“If you want to.” Sherlock squeezed Greg and he had to control himself to not rut into him. Jesus. 

“Yes, I want to. Try, I mean.” John was definitely interested, but also seemed insecure. He searched for Greg's eyes. He smiled at John reassuringly. 

“I'll help you,” he promised. He took hold of Sherlock's feet and held him still. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock announced and shifted so he could pull John into a fierce kiss. John looked a little steamrolled and the angle looked uncomfortable. John huffed and carefully pushed Sherlock down into his lap again. 

“I will not,” John said emphatically “do it on the sofa again. My back is still sore from last time and my shoulder is killing me today. We're doing this in the bedroom, like adults.”

He disentangled himself from the sofa, knocking over an empty food carton in the process. Then he took Sherlock's hand decisively and led him through the kitchen. 

Greg got up as well and lingered about, unsure what to do.

“Are you coming or not?” John inquired over his shoulder with raised eyebrows.

He made after them into the bedroom and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schubert: "Die Forelle" with translation https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF9DrUXowBo 
> 
> "German is rubbish. You can't use it anywhere. Either people won't understand you or they'll think you're a nazi.”  
> [source: am German]


	19. Chapter 19

~Sherlock~

Sherlock stood in their bedroom rather awkwardly, still holding John's hand. He regarded the bed like an alien object he had encountered for the first time. 

Would it hurt? How would it work? Maybe John didn't want to after all. 

He searched John's eyes and found the same insecurity mirrored there. This would take everything between them a step further. Or backwards. John's warm hand tightened around his, reassuring. Greg entered the room behind them and Sherlock heard the door close.

“How...” He cleared his throat which had inexplicably closed up. 

“How do you suggest we do this?” He turned around and addressed Greg. He exuded confidence and a little trepidation.

“Well...” Greg surveyed the room with critical eye. 

“It's probably best if you lie down. It's easier that way and you won't tense up as much.”

Sherlock remembered the way Greg's fingers had stroked inside of him, and the way the first one had felt so big. He was intimidated by the idea of taking a whole dick up his hole. The anxiety must have made it onto his face, because now Greg stood next to him and touched his shoulder. 

“Hey.” He caught Sherlock's gaze. 

“If you want to stop at any point, you just have to say so. It's okay to be scared, I know you haven't done this before. Do you trust me?”

Sherlock nodded. Of course he did.

“Do you trust John?”

What a stupid question. Sherlock glared at Greg.

“Okay, then. Just talk to us. We've got you.” 

Greg's hand moved from his shoulder and tucked a damp curl behind his ear. The tender gesture made Sherlock shiver. John hugged him.

“Are you cold? It is a bit nippy in here.”

Sherlock nodded.

“If I'd known we were going to be doing this today, I'd have turned up the heat in here.” He went over to the old radiator and adjusted the temperature. 

“Or maybe got some sodding rose petals or something.” 

John winked at him.

Greg left his side and removed the duvet from the double bed. He stashed it on the chair in the corner. Then he adjusted a pillow in the middle of the bed.

“Your Majesty?” he joked and indicated Sherlock should take his place on the bed. Sherlock slid off his robe in a fluid movement and clambered onto the setup and shifted his arse on the pillow. He arranged himself in what he hoped was a seductive pose. 

“The other way around, please,” Greg directed him. 

Oh. Stupid. 

His cheeks burned as he turned around and now the position made much more sense. Sherlock turned his head to the side so he could watch John and Greg on his left. His soft cock was nestled into the pillow and his arse was indecently exposed and slightly lifted up. Something complicated happened in John's face.

“Perfect,” Greg announced. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.” The word was slightly muffled because his face was buried halfway in the soft mattress. Goosebumps broke out on his skin and he shivered again.

“We'll warm you up in a minute, don't worry.” 

He heard Greg's voice move around the room. John sat on the left side of the bed, smoothing his warm hands down his back and up again. Sherlock felt around with his left hand until he met John's thigh and grasped it tightly. 

“It's fine. It's all fine,” John murmured. “You look gorgeous.”

Sherlock felt the mattress dip beneath Greg's weight by his feet. 

“You do,” he agreed with John. 

Greg carefully touched both his ankles and wrapped his hands around them. 

“Just try to relax. Breathe.” Sherlock had been breathing shallowly and quickly, but he inhaled deeply now, held, and exhaled. Greg resumed his earlier massage, kneading Sherlock's calf muscles again. Under their combined ministrations he gradually released the tension in his body. John's and Greg's hands were warm and he released another breath and let himself sink into the mattress. John rubbed his back and pressed a kiss onto his shoulder.

Greg moved continuously up his legs and Sherlock felt calloused fingers dig into his thighs with light pressure. Hmm. He could get used to this. Sherlock closed his eyes. He couldn't see anything from his position anyway, and he concentrated fully on the touches. Warm hands and rhythmic stroking soon lulled him into a relaxed state. This was nice. 

Greg massaged the spot where his thighs met his arse. That felt exquisite. He still concentrated on his thighs but his arse cheeks were moved whenever Greg stroked up. He wished he would move up and touch him already, but he took his sweet time getting there. When Greg—finally!—boldly placed both hands on his arse and squeezed, Sherlock released a breath he didn't realise he had been holding. Greg massaged the two globes expertly and Sherlock emitted a small sound he was immediately very self-conscious about. The movement Greg transferred to him also rocked Sherlock into the pillow, and his penis twitched with interest. 

John leaned over him and breathed onto his neck and ear. He kissed the sensitive spot behind Sherlock's earlobe and his heated breath tickled him, inducing another shiver that had nothing to do with cold this time. Now he was getting hard. Sherlock wiggled around on the pillow so that his cock could lay comfortably against his abdomen. Greg assisted him in adjusting the pillow. 

“Alright?” he asked, stopping the movement. His hands lay warm against his arse. 

“Mhmm,” Sherlock said, distracted by John's tongue lapping out to play with his ear.

Greg moved to sit on his calves and resumed his business. Sherlock now felt how exquisitely the circular movement affected his balls. They were jiggled slightly in a pleasant tease. He was now fully hard and longed to rut into the pillow, but he let Greg direct those tiny, maddening thrusts. The mattress dipped again and he felt Greg's lips press a kiss onto his right cheek, then the other. Greg pulled his cheeks apart and pressed them together again while he peppered him with kisses. John had retreated from his ear and was back to smoothing his hands down his flank.

Greg's kisses got messier. Sherlock felt his tongue on his arse, wet and hot, and he braced his thighs while he pressed his cock into the pillow. Greg's mouth would feel so good around him right now. He squirmed, trying to get some friction. Greg held him still and then slowly spread his arse cheeks wide and held them there. 

Then he licked his bollocks. Sherlock gasped. Greg trailed his tongue up, and up, and licked a stripe all the way across his perineum. Sherlock felt as if an electric current was shooting through his nerves and he tensed at the unfamiliar sensation, but it felt wonderful, he wanted more, he needed... He emitted a strange keening sound which he was immediately embarrassed about. 

Greg pressed another close-mouthed kiss on his left cheek as if to steady him. And then he licked across Sherlock's hole. An explosion of sensation rattled him. Greg's hot tongue slid over this most intimate of places. The idea of anyone licking him there was downright filthy. A million concerns flashed across his mind. But when Greg's circled him again, he forgot all about that, and when he proceeded to frenchkiss his arsehole his mind just gave up and his cock pulsed a squirt of precome into his foreskin. 

He moaned rather inelegantly when Greg's tongue pushed inside him. His cheeks were held apart by strong hands and the Detective Inspector fucked him with his tongue like he had done with his fingers. Sherlock had never experienced anything remotely like it. His hard cock leaked into the pillow and he rutted into the wet patch with Greg's tiny movements. Sweat started to form on his forehead and he felt John brush his hair out of it.

Sherlock almost sobbed with the absence of Greg's tongue but it was quickly replaced by a blunt finger pushing into him. It didn't hurt at all, Sherlock was so wet and loose it slid right in. He panted and turned his face into the mattress, trying not to wriggle around too much. He felt a splash of warm wetness run down his arse crack and another moan was ripped from his throat. 

Sherlock heard Greg mutter something quietly and John shifted away from him. 

No, where was John going? He needed him here. 

The mattress dipped down again and his legs were pushed further apart. Sherlock must make quite the display, a finger up his arse and legs spread wide. Sadly, that finger retreated and he chased after it. He wanted it to move inside him, he wanted more of that. Greg stayed with him and massaged his arse, while he heard a click and then John's fingers, wet with lube, carefully skimmed his crack. Oh god.

“John,” he pleaded.

And then John's thick fingers invaded his hole and stretched him wide. Sherlock tried to move against them, seeking that sweet friction, but Greg held him steady in a vice grip. He was completely at their mercy. Surprisingly, that thought held a strange appeal to him. John moved his fingers, carefully. Greg told him to add another.

His hole burned with the stretch and he had to breathe through a little bit of pain. The stretch intensified but it added a bit more excitement.

“Yesyesyes,” he whined.


	20. Chapter 20

John left and Sherlock felt empty, but he was soon replaced by Greg's tongue, laving across his hole again. He heard a rustle of fabric and they were both gone. Greg returned to his field of view lay on the bed next to him. He settled next to his head and cupped his face. 

“Hey,” he greeted him, smiling mischievously, and wiped his mouth. 

“John is getting ready. Do you think you're ready?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. He couldn't see much of Greg, but at some point he had taken off his shirt and trousers. Greg leaned back against the headboard and stretched out his legs next to Sherlock’s left side. 

John stroked down his back down towards his arse. Sherlock heard a wet squelch, and John breathing out through his nose just as he was always doing when he touched his own cock. Oh, he was probably getting himself lubed up. What kind of lube was he using? He would have to ask later. John pressed himself up against him. His thick erection was poking into Sherlock’s thigh, hot and hard. 

“Sherlock,” he panted, “I'm going to... alright?”

“Very carefully,” Greg added.

John's cock slid across his arse and he felt the tip press against him. But it was the wrong spot. 

“Down a bit,” Sherlock directed. 

The blunt head of John’s cock pressed against the tight ring of muscles, and with mounting force, John finally slipped in. Sherlock yelled in sudden pain. Intense pressure radiated from the spot. Ouch. That was quite a bit more discomfort than he had anticipated. He thought he’d been ready after God knows how many fingers stretching him, but it still hurt like fuck. 

“It's okay, love, we've got you.” Greg petted his hair and neck. “This is normal, you're doing so well. I slicked you up very nicely, but it's always a bit tight at first. You should be able to take his cock now. Don't worry.” 

Sherlock whined. It felt like there was a huge hard rod pressing inside him. 

“Sorry,” John wheezed. “Fuck, you're tight.”

Sherlock held Greg's hand. 

“Breathe,” Greg ordered. “Just breathe through it, you'll be there in a minute.” 

He tried to do just that. In— and out. In—and out. His erection flagged and now he just lay in a wet spot on a pillow with John's penis trying to spear his bowels. It didn't even look as huge as it felt now. Sherlock was close to admitting defeat. This tiny orifice was clearly not meant to accommodate a fully engorged penis. Tears of shame welled up in his eyes. 

Greg stroked his hair. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “Sherlock, look at me.” 

He took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Greg's kind face hovered above him. 

“You can do this,” he encouraged him. “It won't hurt for long, it will feel so good in minute, I promise you. And if you don't want to continue this right now, I'll just lick your arse until you come. How's that sound?” he whispered. 

Sherlock could imagine doing that. 

“You liked that, right?” 

Sherlock nodded, almost forgetting about the fat cock penetrating him, as he remembered the hot and wet pushes of Greg's tongue. 

“I could fuck you with my tongue all day long. You make the most delightful sounds. John nearly got off just from watching you wriggle your arse like that. And now he's just so horny he'd like to fuck it, too.” 

The pain had abated somewhat. John held his body still over Sherlock's. His arms trembled slightly. This must be hell on his shoulder. 

“So we're going to try little bit more...” 

Inch by arduous inch, John pushed into him. Sherlock whimpered. The stretch had lessened and didn't burn quite as much. 

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned when he bottomed out. 

Sherlock felt completely filled up. He had a huge cock inside his arse. He could feel John's heat and the way he pulsed inside him. Sherlock squeezed around him experimentally. 

“Oh, shit... I don't want to come yet, I don't want to...” John cursed and grabbed his shaft.

“Just give him a minute, don't move.” Greg's caresses calmed him.

“You both look so gorgeous.” 

John moved inside of him, testing. The sensation was intense.

“John, come on, slowly.” 

John started pumping his dick in and out of Sherlock's hole. Sherlock gasped. 

John's thrusts pressed him against the pillow which rubbed the wet fabric against his cock. 

“Sherlock, does it... hurt?” John squeezed out.

“S’okay,” Sherlock managed to say, muffled by the mattress. 

And strangely, it was. It didn't exactly hurt anymore, it was just that there was a large penis penetrating him and rubbing him from the inside. It wasn't that bad, it just felt weird. He felt John's damp hot breath ghost across his shoulders. 

“Oh God,” John murmured and Sherlock felt his cock twitch inside him. That was interesting. 

“Hmm, I think we can optimize this,” Greg said quietly, untangling his hand from Sherlock’s hair. 

“John, try to changing the angle, like this.” 

Greg leaned over and adjusted Sherlock’s and John’s hips slightly. When he moved, Sherlock could catch a quick glance of the considerable bulge in his black pants. Hmm, maybe he could…

John's glans slammed into his prostate and Sherlock’s whole body tingled up into his fingertips. 

“Fuck!” he yelled. 

Greg grinned and held his neck steady again. 

“Now we're talking.”

Sherlock’s whole world narrowed down to the intense pleasure that hit him in waves every time John fucked him into the pillow. He rutted his hard cock against it desperately, feeling his orgasm approaching. John made inarticulate sounds and leaned his head against his neck as he sped up. He slammed into him particularly hard and Sherlock felt hot ejaculate pulse inside him. 

Analysing the sensation distracted him so much that he forgot about his own pleasure and just lay there. He accepted John’s warm weight as he dropped on top of him, sweaty and panting. For now he was content, although his erection felt wet and poked into his stomach as it was crushed against the pillow. 

“Sorry,” John grunted and moved to scramble off of him. His cock slipped out of Sherlock and he mourned its loss. He felt empty. And still quite aroused.   
Greg’s hand rested on his neck. 

“Did you come, Sherlock?”

He minutely shook his head and blushed. Was he supposed to? He supposed he could have achieved orgasm, given more time and stimulation in that particular rhythm towards the end. Greg must have sensed his embarrassment because he immediately soothed him. 

“That’s okay. It’s possible, but a bit tricky. Don’t worry about it. You did very well.”

Sherlock loved being praised like that. It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He relaxed again and reached down to take himself in hand.

~Greg~

“Come on, turn around. Lie on your back,” Greg urged him and took the pillow out from under him when he complied. Sherlock’s neck and face were flushed with exertion. The sheets had left some red marks were he had been pressed into it. His erection bobbed up against his flat white abdomen. Greg's nostrils flared as he breathed in the smell of Sherlock’s sweat and arousal. His own cock throbbed painfully in his pants. 

John had cleaned up and now approached the bed again, and sank down on Sherlock’s right side. He kissed him. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head toward John. John opened his eyes and looked at Greg. Greg longed to touch Sherlock. He wanted to push him over the edge, he wanted to fuck him until he came all over himself but he didn’t dare. Not right now. 

He rubbed his palm across Sherlock’s chest, mouthing to John “May I?” as he let his hand drift lower, toward his crotch. John smiled and nodded. He was clearly exhausted and quite happy to lie by Sherlock’s side, mouthing his neck. 

Greg sat up and gripped Sherlock’s cock. Startled, his eyes jerked open as he stared at Greg above him. He had the most beautiful almond eyes. The light silver was almost completely eclipsed by his dilated pupils. Sherlock let out a shivering moan as Greg started to jerk him, loose and fast. Sherlock’s prick felt amazing, silk over steel, he was so hard and wet it wouldn’t take long. John just held him and admired the spectacle.

Greg soaked up each of his shaky breaths and Sherlock rutted into his hand. Yes, John had fucked him, but he was the one to bring him off now. With a grunt, Sherlock climaxed. Greg was transfixed by Sherlock’s stunning cock shooting ropes of come onto his white chest. Sherlock spilled into the ring of his fingers and it dribbled over his hand as he stroked him through it, the warm stickiness coating him. 

“You beautiful bastard,” John whispered reverently. 

Sherlock sighed contently and Greg held his cock until it started to deflate. His own erection would do no such thing, though. He let go of Sherlock and shoved his hand down his pants. He hissed when his neglected prick finally got something warm and wet to thrust into. Using Sherlock’s cum as sticky lubricant, he only had to touch himself for a short moment until he came violently into his pants, unable to take his eyes from the naked and thoroughly fucked detective in front of him. 

For once, he didn’t care what Sherlock and John thought of him for jerking himself off right next to them. Anyone who could witness this and remain unaffected wasn’t human. 

He wiped his hand off on his pants and collapsed against the headboard. 

“I’m… leaking,” Sherlock complained. 

“You should take a trip to the loo and clean up,” Greg suggested breathlessly. 

Sherlock harrumphed and peeled himself off the mattress with considerable effort.   
John looked like didn’t want to move, ever again. He lay on his side and surveyed the state of Greg’s pants. Greg still wasn’t comfortable with taking them off without being asked to. 

“Maybe next time, you’ll let one of us do that,” he murmured sleepily. 

“Yeah, I’d... like that,” Greg rasped. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his galloping heartbeat. He could still taste Sherlock in his mouth. 

~Sherlock~ 

Sherlock wobbled into the bathroom on unsteady legs. Apparently engaging in that activity for a prolonged period of time made one a tad unsteady. Worth it. Greg had been right, the initial discomfort was annoying but being stimulated in that fashion was indeed spectacular. He’d have to explore that in depth. 

Sherlock plopped down on the loo and made a face at the sticky sensation as his muscles relaxed and warm liquids (lubricant, semen, feces) dribbled out of him. One of the downsides of this practice. When he was done, he bunched up some tissues and cleaned off his cock and his chest. He still felt sticky and uncomfortable, so he decided to take a quick shower, preferably without getting his hair wet again. While he rinsed off, his mind wandered, curiously sated after a bout vigorous intercourse. 

And then it struck him. 

Of course! That's what he had been missing before! Nitrogen, phosphate, potassium... NPK... He jumped out of the tub and raced into the bedroom, dripping water everywhere. 

“John! Greg! I got it, it’s…” 

He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed that both men had their eyes closed and breathed evenly. Standard male post-coital behaviour. How common. Should he wake them up and tell them? 

He really, really wanted to. But after all, John and Greg had just spent a considerable amount of energy in pleasuring and servicing him, licking, fucking and wanking him. They probably deserved some rest. 

He bundled the duvet up from its place on the chair and draped it over them. There. They could relax now. But while the fuzzy content still lingered in his limbs, his mind for once was uncluttered and he could see things clearly! He wasn’t going to let that kind energy go to waste. He felt so invigorated, elated even, oxytocin, endorphin, serotonin rushing through his bloodstream like whooping children on a water slide. What a night to be alive! And it was only ten o'clock! He quickly dried off, got dressed, and left the room as quietly as possible. Sherlock knew exactly where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and your patience. I was at a conference this weekend, but before I drop dead, here is the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to continue this whenever I can. 
> 
> If you come up with a better title or any suggestions, let me know!
> 
> Comments are highly appreciated and might incite me to write faster.


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